


The Battersea Buttery

by Camelittle



Category: Friends, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Friends (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arthur is a bit OCD, Crack, Cupboard Sex, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gwaine is a bit of a hit with the ladies, Gwen is bonkers, Loo sex, M/M, Merlin looks after everyone, Morgana is a paleontologist, OK lots of sex, Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Sneaking Around, Sneaky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur shares a flat in Battersea with Mithian, who works at the local coffee shop, the Battersea Buttery, and Gwen, who is expecting triplets, as a surrogate for her brother Elyan. Gwaine, an out of work actor, and Merlin, joker, accountant and all round good egg, live in the flat across the hall. At Arthur's sister Morgana's (second) wedding in Copenhagen, Arthur and Merlin end up in bed with each other. They decide to keep it a secret.  </p><p>Merlin / Friends fusiony mish-mashy Friends AU - set in London, with a cast of Merlin characters dropping in for tea, and toasted crumpets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one where Arthur serves burgers on roller-skates

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for this most excellent KMM prompt: 
> 
> "I would just really like a story with them in a relationship development like Chandler and Monica's from FRIENDS. With them starting out as good friends, getting in a secret sexual relationship and then developing in a good and healthy and strong relationship from there."

“It’s just humiliating,” says Arthur, adjusting his bra and scowling. “That twat, Geoffrey, doesn’t make any of the other waiters do this. Only the waitresses.”

  
Merlin presses his lips together to avoid grinning. “Hey, plenty of people feel empowered by rollerskating. Just tap into your inner ‘skate dude’. If you think you’re cool, everyone else thinks you’re cool. Simple.”

“I’m not complaining about the rollerskates, Merlin.” Arthur looks so sweet when he glowers. “I’m getting a growing appreciation for what women suffer though. Can you believe one of the customers squeezed these yesterday?” He gestures towards the twin bulges that grace his chest. “The dirty old bugger. I felt like punching him.”

“Well they are a magnificent sight,” says Merlin, deadpanning. “Could latex and compressed air _be_ any more attractive?” He reaches out a hand to touch Arthur’s chest; Arthur slaps it glaring. Merlin can’t hold his laugh in any longer. He snorts. Mirthful tears start from his eyes.

“You unfeeling bastard,” says Arthur. "I started this job because I want to be a chef, not a rollerskating drag-artist waitron. Some friend you are."

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I’m laughing with you, not at you.” Merlin bites his lip. He knows Arthur had hoped for something better when he took the job at Burgertastic. Arthur looks hurt. He turns and slams the door to his flat.

Merlin’s mood, like Arthur's artificial cleavage, deflates a little. He stands outside Arthur's flat for a moment, mouth open, hand raised as if to knock, but thinks better of it.

"Sorry!" he shouts through the key hole, "I didn't mean it Arthur!" and he turns to his own door with a sigh. He inserts the key and goes in, pulling off his jacket. "Gwaine?" he calls to his flatmate. "I'm home."

Gwaine is sitting in front of the TV, expression set in a morose pout. “Morning,” he says, his eyes fixed on the TV.

“Afternoon,” says Merlin, pulling off his tie and slumping onto the sofa.

“Would you take a look at that?” says Gwaine, voice indignant. He’s watching the ‘Hair Cheese’ advert. “I can’t believe they turned me down for that part. My hair is ten times cheesier than that goon’s.” He passes Merlin a tin of beer, which Merlin opens, sucking at it gratefully.

“Seriously, Gwaine, you’re well out of that one. Hair Cheese? Who comes up with these ridiculous product names anyway?” says Merlin, stretching out his legs and yawning.

Gwaine grunts and takes a pull from his beer.

“So, have you booked your ticket to Morgana’s wedding yet?” Merlin carries on. Gwaine looks sheepish. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then."

“I don’t have any cash. You know I haven’t even had an audition for 3 months. Why the hell is she getting married in bloody Copenhagen anyway? That’s not just north of the river, for Christ’s sake. You’d struggle to get a cab back from there, for sure. What’s wrong with Battersea?”

Merlin resists telling Gwaine to fire his agent, slurps the rest of his beer, and pulls an envelope out of his suitcase. “Here you are, mate,” he says, chucking it over. “You do realise that Morgause is Danish, right?”

Gwaine frowns. “She is? I thought she just smelt of herring because…”

Merlin’s mouth drops open. “Gwaine! That’s the most inappropriate…”

“Only kidding, Merlin, a bit hypersensitive today aren’t we? Look, mate, sorry,” Gwaine throws up his hands and goes all disarming. “I’m an idiot. I know.”

“Look, Gwaine you tosser,” Merlin continues, and he forgives Gwaine, because he can’t help being an offensive twat sometimes, “there are hundreds of gorgeous ladies and gents coming to this bash, because, well, Denmark, right? And I know you’re not quite the right gender for a lot of them, but surely some must swing both ways at least, and if the worst comes to the worst, there’s always Percy.”

Gwaine flashes him a grateful smile and opens the envelope. A plane ticket falls out; he gapes at Merlin. “I can’t pay you back, mate,” he says. “And may I remind you that Percy is far from a last resort.”

“I consider it to be an investment,” Merlin replies. “Just remember, any mate of mine is too good for Hair Cheese.”

Gwaine grins. “Thanks, mate,” he says. “When I’m rich and famous, you’re going to be my wing man.”

“You have to promise to introduce me to Benedict Cumberbatch, OK?” says Merlin.

“You got it,” promises Gwaine.

Merlin’s stomach rumbles. He hasn’t had time for lunch. “Don’t suppose you got any food?” he asks without much hope, getting up to rummage in the fridge. Two more tins of Kronenburg lurk behind a mouldy old sandwich and (for some reason) a pair of socks. He pulls the tinnies out, chucks one at his flatmate.

Gwaine shakes his head. “Wonder if Arthur’s cooking?” Arthur’s a fantastic cook.

“Erm ah,” says Merlin. He swigs his beer and looks away. “About that. I might have opened my big mouth and put my foot in it earlier.” Merlin gets a bit carried away with repartee sometimes, that’s all. He can’t help it.

“Idiot, have you made the princess sulk?” says Gwaine. “Look, I’ll charm him, don’t worry.” The two men grin at each other and surge to their feet. They leave the flat, cross the landing, and ring the bell.

“Hi Mithian” says Gwaine brightly, stepping over the threshold. “We came to see how Gwen is getting on.”

Mithian smiles, letting them in. “That’s so sweet!” she says. Arthur stands glowering behind her, his arms folded.

“You smelt the lasagne didn’t you,” he accuses.

Merlin tries to look innocent but Gwaine just saunters in. “Yup,” Gwaine says cheerily. “Arthur, you cook like a god. I reckon Merlin could smell it from his bloody office, and Lombard Street is bloody miles from Battersea!” 

Merlin smiles winningly at Arthur, who glares back. Oh. Not forgiven yet then.

“How’s my favourite surrogate mum?” Gwaine continues. He bends forward to kiss Gwen, who is sitting on the sofa with her back to him, her legs splayed out uncomfortably from underneath her distended belly.

She bats him away. “Don’t speak,” she says. “I don’t want the babies to learn what your voice sounds like. They might grow up thinking that you’re trustworthy.” Gwaine chuckles and turns a hopeful eye to Arthur. “And keep your greedy mitts off my dinner!” she adds.

Arthur bends to withdraw a delicious-looking baking tray from the oven. A golden-brown, bubbling, cheesy topping graces its surface. Merlin eyes it, licking his lips.

“Ah!” says Arthur. “Sorry, Merlin, there’s not enough here for you. After all, Gwen’s eating for four.

Merlin fixes Arthur with his best pleading expression. Arthur sighs. “I suppose it’s a good thing I made two,” he says. “I’m such a sucker. You are bloody well going to take me to the footie at the weekend to pay me back.”

“No worries, Arthur,” says Merlin with a triumphant grin. He grabs a fork from the drawer, and cranes around Arthur’s waist to try to snaffle a mouthful of lasagne from the still-bubbling baking tray. “God, that looks amazing.”

Arthur growls and shoves him away before he can stick the fork in. “Buggroff, Merlin, you greedy bastard,” he grumbles, without heat. He fends Merlin off and carves both lasagnes up into portions. Merlin and Gwaine “high-five” each other behind Arthur’s back.

“Arthur, you are a gentleman,” says Merlin a few minutes later, groaning with bliss as he shovels a heavily laden forkful of lasagne into his slavering mouth. “And a genius. You’re the best cook I’ve ever met. You are a wonderful human being. Could this lasagne _be_ more delicious? My offer still stands. If neither of us is married at 40…”

“…you’ll marry me. Yes, yes, I understand, Merlin, but I’m seriously hoping that you won’t have to follow through with your threat,” says Arthur.

“Suit yourself,” says Merlin, swallowing a tiny pang of disappointment along with a crispy, beautifully-dressed lettuce leaf. “But I’m a catch, you know I am. After all, how many other accountants do you know who colour code their private filing system, and store their porn collection in alphabetical order?” Merlin knows Arthur’s weak spots.

“Unfortunately, those two virtues are not enough to overcome your appalling taste in friends,” Arthur says, laughing and throwing a teatowel at Gwaine, who is licking his plate.

Gwaine raises an innocent-looking eyebrow. “What?” he says. His long tongue snakes out and licks tomato sauce from his moustache, like a cat.

Merlin throws the kitchen roll at him.

After dinner, they listen politely to Gwen’s latest song, discuss travel arrangements for Copenhagen, and admire Mithian’s bridesmaid’s outfit. They commiserate with Gwen that she’s not allowed to fly, she’s too far gone with the triplets. Gwaine and Merlin turn to leave, and Merlin lingers in the doorway for a second. “I iron my underwear too,” he says, with a wink at Arthur. “I have separate drawers for different coloured pants, and I’ve indexed each pair.”

“For the love of God!” says Arthur. “Just… just go!” His mock-fierce expression does a bad job of hiding his grin.

Forgiven, Merlin thinks, and he smiles himself to sleep.

 

~#~

 

Arthur’s sitting in the Battersea Buttery chatting to Merlin when a large, enthusiastic Irish Wolfhound bursts in, ignoring the “no dogs” sign on the door, shortly followed by Arthur’s half-sister. The wolfhound rushes up to Arthur and covers his face in canine kisses. Arthur grimaces and grasps hold of the leash, to rescue other customers from this enthusiastic doggy love. He holds out a grateful hand when Merlin proffers a hanky to wipe his now-slimy face.

“Arthur, would you mind looking after Mordred for a bit?” Morgana pleads. “I’ve got to go for a fitting…”

Arthur scowls. “I thought your bitch ex had custody of this slobbery mutt.”

“Sophia is coming to the fitting too.”

“You invited the hag? Please tell me that bastard Cenred isn’t coming with her.”

“He’s perfectly sweet, Arthur, just because he called you fat…” she says.

“Exactly! I’m not fat!” Arthur stands up to examine himself in the coffee-shop window, just in case. At that moment an apron-clad Mithian appears from the counter, carrying Arthur’s soy latte. She gulps, eyes widening.

“Morgana,” she says, batting her lashes. Morgana simpers back. Arthur exchanges a look with Merlin. Honestly, his sister is getting married in a couple of weeks, she should damn well stop flirting with her exes, especially the ones he's friends with. That thing with Mithian ended ages ago, anyway, in a haze of misunderstandings and recriminations. Morgana backs out of the coffee shop. Mithian lets out a wistful sigh.

Arthur realises with a curse that he’s been lumbered with Mordred.

Merlin gets up. “C’mon, you,” he says. “Stop sulking. Let’s go to Battersea Park.” He takes Mordred’s leash and is dragged out of the door. Arthur flashes a fond smile at his back, and follows.


	2. The one where they go to Copenhagen for Morgana's wedding, and Gwaine gets lucky at the airport.

Merlin knocks on the door, suitcase by his side. “Time to go,” he yells through the letterbox. 

Arthur opens the door. Mithian’s behind him. “Bye, Arthur,” she says, pressing a dry kiss to his cheek. She has changed her mind about being a bridesmaid. She’s staying in London. She can’t face seeing Morgana get hitched.

“I wish it was you, not Morgause,” says Arthur, his eyes full of kindness and concern “I’d love to have you as my sister.”

Gwaine emerges at that point, clutching a holdall. Arthur steps back into the flat to give Gwen a kiss goodbye. “Call me,” he says, frowning. "Seriously, Gwen, any time of day or night. OK?" She nods. He shakes Elyan’s hand, gives him a serious look. “Look after her, mate.”

Merlin smiles, warmth blossoming in his chest as he watches Arthur say his goodbyes. Arthur looks after everyone. He’s like a mother hen.

“Hey, she’s carrying them for me, right?” says Elyan. “It’s the least I can do.”

Morgana has gone on ahead to organise things with Morgause’s family, so it’s an all-male gathering at Gatwick airport for the flight.

Naturally, beers are consumed. They buy a Danish phrasebook, and spend some time trying to make sense of the pronunciation. They fail, of course. But it’s brilliant. At some point, Gwaine gets asked to stop singing.

Merlin can’t bring himself to care. He’s having the time of his life and the plane hasn’t even taken off yet. 

When they arrive at Kastrup airport they join a long queue of homesick Danes buying take-away sausages in the luggage claim area. They have a competition to see who can eat their sausage the most suggestively.

Gwaine wins. An impossibly long-legged Danish girl is watching him. He looks up, she winks.

Gwaine smiles. “How’re you doin’,” he purrs, with an appreciative leer. She giggles, bats her lashes at him. He flicks his hair. Arthur and Merlin exchange a look.

“I can’t believe he’s already pulled!” says Merlin, rolling his eyes as Gwaine and the girl exchange mobile numbers.

"Watch and learn, oh padawan," says Gwaine.

As they arrive at the chic hotel which will double as the wedding venue, Arthur steps absently onto what he thinks is the pavement, but is actually a cycle path. Merlin yanks Arthur back hard out of the path of a grim-faced cyclist.

Morgana spots them and shrieks a welcome. Arthur wraps her in a fond embrace. He looks less fond when she tells him he’s sharing a room with their father.

“What? No way! I haven’t shared a hotel with Father since that trip to Benidorm.”

She shudders. “You speak of the unspeakable," she says.

“It’s your bloody fault,” he says. “I can’t share with him, he’ll spend hours lecturing me about my dead-end life. Please, Morgana. I'll even share with Gaius in preference.”

“I’m sorry Arthur, it was the only place left.”

Gwaine’s listening and texting at the same time. “It’s OK Arthur,” he says with a sleazy grin. “You can take my place and share with Merlin. I’m going to sleep at Eira’s tonight.” He walks off, still texting. _Honestly,_ thinks Merlin, _that boy works fast_.

“Wait,” Morgana shouts. “You’re not going now are you? What about the pre-wedding dinner?”

Gwaine shrugs as he reverses towards the exit. “I’m sure you can manage without me,” he says, turning round to leave.

Morgana frowns at him. “Don’t forget you’re ushering tomorrow,” she yells at his retreating rear. "Be back by 2pm, looking perfect, or I will have you castrated!"

He exits the revolving door without answering, his hair swishing as he steps outside into the summer breeze.

Merlin feels a pang of envy. With Morgana and Arthur’s father there, not to mention Morgause’s Danish family, he isn’t much looking forward to the pre-wedding dinner. He hopes that copious supplies of alcohol will numb the tension. He sighs, looking down at Gwaine’s abandoned bag. “I suppose I’d better look after that for him,” he says.

Morgause sidles up. She always seems to move sideways, like a crab. “Ah, Arthur,” she says, ushering a tall, paper-skinned, pale-haired woman towards him. “This is my mother, Viviane. Mum, this is Arthur. Arthur is…”

“You must be Morgana’s father,” the woman interrupts, extending a hand, artificial smile plastered across her face. “I have heard so much about you.”

“What? No! I’m Morgana’s brother, not her father. Younger brother.”

Merlin can see the vein in Arthur’s temple begin to throb, nudges him. “Manners,” he hisses.

“Charmed,” Arthur manages to add, shaking her hand, and then Merlin tugs him away before he explodes.

Later that night, after dinner, Merlin stands with Arthur at the bar for a cheeky whisky, and Arthur wallows in self pity. “It’s never going to be me,” he moans. “Cenred thinks I’m fat, and Viviane thinks I’m old. My father thinks I’m a failure. My sister’s been married twice already, but I never will be. I have to face it Merlin, I’m washed up. I’m on the shelf. No-one is ever going to want me.”

Merlin leans forward, and it must be all the champagne or something, because he’s feeling brave, and doesn’t put his foot in it for once. He touches Arthur’s elbow. Arthur looks up at him, eyes dark with self doubt.

“Arthur, you’re not fat, and you’re not old,” says Merlin. His words are slurring a bit, oops. “You’re warm, and you’re kind, and you look after everyone. You’re a master chef with amazing organisational skills. Your arse looks incredible in a tux. You’re the most handsome man in the room. In Copenhagen. In Europe. The most handsome man I have ever met. You’re a catch, Arthur.”

Arthur’s lips curve up in a faint smile. “Thanks,” he says, and he punches Merlin gently on the arm.

“Yep, a catch. Just like I am,” says Merlin with a grin. And neither of them stop smiling for the rest of the evening.

They organise a surprise for Morgana and Morgause; they steal the key to their hotel room with the help of Elena, Morgause’s sister. They strew rose-petals all over the bed, inflate condoms with helium, scatter condoms and lube across the room, and place a carefully wrapped package in pride of place on the pillow. The package contains a harness and a variety of multi-sized dildos. Proud of their work, they race back along corridors and up the fire escape, tumble into their bedroom and lock themselves in.

“Shhh!” says Merlin, giggling, flattening himself against the door, to bar against incomers.

Arthur, chest heaving with exertion, movements exaggerated by champagne and whiskey, goes to place a finger to Merlin’s lips. He stumbles and falls against Merlin. His body is firm and warm, his dress shirt sweat-slicked, his finger pressed a bit too hard against Merlin’s mouth.

Without thinking, Merlin sucks it in. It tastes of whiskey and chocolate. "Mmmm," he says.  
  



	3. The one where Gwaine runs out of condoms

Arthur’s eyes, pupils huge, watch Merlin's mouth, Merlin’s cheeks hollowing round his finger. Merlin’s hands curl round Arthur’s waist, wander south towards his firm, round buttocks, and pull him closer.

Arthur doesn’t resist when their parted lips meet, his finger still trapped between their mouths. Merlin’s eyes flutter closed and lets his tongue snake between Arthur’s parted lips. Arthur groans softly.

Merlin doesn’t stop to think how or why this has happened. He doesn’t care. It feels so right, just him and Arthur kissing. Is this a thing, now? He doesn’t know. He lives in the moment, in the sensations, in the connection building between them, and it feels like coming home. When Arthur’s groin rubs against his, he moans, pulls Arthur closer, rolls his hips and it feels so good. His trousers feel hot, hard, tight. His head falls back against the door, his breath stutters. Arthur pins him to the door with strong hands, buries his face in Merlin’s neck, licks, sucks, his breath cold on the wet lick. His soft, sweet-smelling hair tickles Merlin’s nose when he inhales.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers. It’s not a question or a warning, because it seems like Arthur wants this as much as he does. He just likes saying Arthur’s name.

Arthur looks up for a moment, pauses to take in Merlin’s face, smiles. “Minx,” he says. He pulls at Merlin’s shirt, exposes some skin, touches him, hisses at his heat.

“Fuck,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You… in that bloody tux, Merlin I just don’t… your lips, Merlin…” he closes in again, and he tastes of whiskey and desire.

Merlin shakes his head, pulls away. “You too?” he croaks, disbelieving. “I’ve been half hard all night, thinking about your bloody arse, Arthur, just…” The gentle rub of Arthur’s stubbly cheek against’ Merlin’s lips makes his breath catch.

Arthur’s firm arms encircle him then and push him towards the bed. “Too many clothes, Merlin,” he says, fumbling with Merlin’s trousers, rubbing at Merlin's straining cock.

“Fuckit, Arthur,” Merlin pants. “Shit, I’m so horny, you bastard, just… oh my fucking god.” He can feel a wet spot developing on his pants and he groans.

“Manners, Merlin,” Arthur drawls, in total control, hand pressed to the bulge in Merlin's trousers, the git. Merlin grabs at Arthur’s head, grasps his hair, pulls him down onto the bed.

Arthur sprawls heavily on top of him. It’s everything he wants and more. “Condoms? Lube?” says Arthur.

Merlin thinks about the supplies they’ve liberally scattered across Morgana’s room and groans, but then has a brainwave. “Gwaine’s bag,” he pants.

“Sure?” says Arthur.

“Of course I’m bloody sure! I packed it for him. Get on with it you tease,” says Merlin.

“Bossy,” says Arthur without heat, reaching into the bag.

When, at long last, they’re naked, the sight of Arthur’s firm, thick fingers pressing into Arthur’s moistened, musky opening is intensely arousing. Merlin groans and shuts his eyes, grasping the base of his prick. When Arthur lowers himself onto Merlin he can’t watch. “Holy shit,” he whimpers, over and over. “Arthur!” His fingers grasp at the bedcovers. He’s joined to Arthur, and it’s perfect. His hips roll up and Arthur gasps.

“All right?” whispers Merlin. Arthur nods and lifts, lowering himself gently back onto Merlin. Merlin feels the clench, the hot squeeze of Arthur’s muscles, and thinks he never wants this to stop.

Arthur cries out, broken-voiced, when he comes, painting hot, white streaks across Merlin’s chest. Merlin thinks “I did that!” and just the sound is enough to push Merlin over the edge. He pulses into Arthur with a long moan.

Afterwards they lie, together, sticky. Arthur turns over and starts to snore, so Merlin does too. And in the morning, when they wake up, they do it again, just to confirm that it isn’t just champagne that makes it the best sex they’ve ever had.

They order breakfast.

“This isn’t going to make everything weird, right?” Merlin just wants to check. He loves his life, his flatmate, his friends. He doesn’t want it to get weird. He shoves a mouthful of scrambled egg into his face.

“Of course not,” says Arthur, slurping his tea. “We’re still friends, aren’t we? It’s not like we never met before.”

Merlin nods.

Arthur thinks for a bit. “Morgana can never know. Can you imagine…?”

Merlin shudders. He can. “We don’t have to tell them,” he says. They exchange a look of tacit agreement that lasts just a few moments longer than you’d expect.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t do it again,” he adds, thoughtful.

Arthur grins. “Of course it doesn’t,” he says, his hand whispering down Merlin’s torso towards his swelling prick “No time like the present.” Merlin swallows but he’s not about to disagree. He puts the discarded breakfast tray on the floor, turns into Arthur’s welcoming embrace, presses his hardening cock into Arthur’s hip.

But there’s an urgent rap on the door. “Stop shagging!” Gwaine shouts. It’s the standard greeting between the friends, but Merlin leaps out of bed as if scalded, cursing as he knocks the half eaten breakfast over.

Gwaine thumps the door again. “Open up, princess!”

Arthur pulls on a bathrobe and gathers up all the used condoms. He dumps them unceremoniously in the bin on his way to the door, covers them with Kleenex, opens the window, sprays deodorant to get rid of the smell of sex. “Just a minute,” he calls, “Not up yet!”

Merlin dashes to the shower and Arthur pads to the door, letting Gwaine in.

Gwaine is too busy boasting about his most recent conquest to notice anything untoward. “That Eira is bloody gorgeous,” he says. “I’m thinking of sticking around in Copenhagen for a bit after the wedding. She says there are some good parts going on Danish TV?”

“Good luck to you, mate,” calls Merlin from the bathroom, examining himself in the mirror and hastily covering a hickey with his scarf before he comes back into the bedroom. Arthur’s sitting on the rumpled bedsheets in his bathrobe, ostensibly reading a book. Merlin gives it a pointed look. Arthur hastily turns it the right way up.

“Didn’t you pack me some condoms and lube?” says Gwaine, oblivious, fishing around in his bag. Arthur snickers.

“Must have forgotten them,” says Merlin, feeling hot. They’d used a whole packet of condoms. It was worth it.

“Sure you didn’t get lucky?” says Gwaine. Merlin is mortified, but Gwaine answers his own question with a laugh. “No need to answer that. Of course you didn’t.”  
Merlin’s mouth opens to protest, but Arthur shakes his head and he closes it again.

 

 


	4. The one where Morgana gets married

Frank Loesser had it right, Copenhagen is wonderful, thinks Arthur, an idle hand trailing through the cool water that surrounds the tourist boat, Merlin’s warm thigh pressed to his. Either that, or the life-affirming sex he’s had over the past 24 hours is mellowing him. Why on earth haven’t he and Merlin shagged before? They haven't been particularly athletic, or kinky, but their bodies fit together, as if moulded for one another. They have an instinctive connection. Arthur's body thrills at Merlin's touch. He has never felt anything like it. His prick is inconveniently filling now, just at the thought.

He shifts his weight on the hard wooden seat, glances at Merlin, who’s looking at him. When Merlin’s lip softens in the precursor to an intimate smile, Arthur knows exactly what he’s thinking. He finds himself wondering when they can get back to the hotel. He resists the urge to stroke Merlin’s hand. He surreptitiously puts his hand in his pocket. Merlin traces a finger along Arthur’ wrist.

Arthur gulps, crosses his legs and glares at Merlin’s twitching lips. “I’ll repay you for that later,” he whispers. “Looking forward to it,” says Merlin, smirking. Arthur tries to distract himself by turning his attention to the architecture of the Danish Royal Opera House.

Gwaine and Eira are being less subtle. Gwaine sees very little of the city, what with his eyes being closed and his tongue permanently installed down Eira’s throat. But Arthur has to be careful. Morgana’s spies are everywhere. He has counted three of them on this boat alone. He clears his throat and leans forward to speak to one.

“So, Elena,” he says, “do you still live in Copenhagen?”

“Oh yes,” she says, “I’ve got a little apartment just off Vesterbrogade, it’s in the former red light district, actually. We still sometimes get accosted by drunken Swedes whose guide-books are a bit out of date."

She launches into an amusing anecdote. Arthur laughs, warming to her in a way he never expected for someone who was related to Morgause. Then he realises that this time tomorrow, he’ll also be related to Morgause. Still, at least Elena comes as part of the package, and it’ll be nice to have an excuse to visit Denmark.

But that afternoon, at the wedding, there are signs of marital rifts already when Mithian turns up and slips into the hall. Morgana’s eyes widen when she sees her ex, hands demurely folded, in the congregation. It’s no wonder she slips up when she takes her vows, but when she says “I, Morgana, take you Mithian,” instead of “Morgause,” it doesn’t go down well with her bride at all.

A tense silence greets Arthur when he stands up to give his after-dinner speech, which he’s had to rewrite hastily to avoid reference to Morgana’s previous relationships. And then to cap it all Uther slings poorly-veiled barbs Arthur’s way throughout his own speech. By the end of the day Arthur’s got the most awful headache, and he pushes out of the room scowling, Merlin by his side.

His temper doesn’t improve when he finds Eira and Gwaine _in flagrante delicto_ on his bed. He closes his eyes and slams the door to screen out Eira’s breathless moans.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” he says, frustrated, pulling at his hair.

Merlin looks around the empty hotel corridor, smooths Arthur’s hair down.

“C’mon,” he says, tugging Arthur’s arm, pulling him into the clean-laundry cupboard, pushing Arthur against the door inside. He gently undoes Arthur’s trousers. “You look tense, let me suck you off.” Merlin’s clever fingers are already releasing his cock from its confinement.

“Fuck, yeah,” says Arthur, feeling his ever-ready prick filling at the sound of Merlin's purring voice. Forever after he’d associate the smell of clean laundry with mind-altering orgasms. It’s a good thought.

“Such a big fat juicy prick,” says Merlin, in an admiring voice. “Promise me you’ll bury it in my arse later.”

Arthur groans. He loves Merlin’s filthy talk, his purple, fleshy lips, his cheeky grin. He flexes his hips.

“Please Merlin,” he begs, and Merlin takes him in, chuckling at the back of his throat. It's hot and moist, and when Merlin moves his tongue like that, Arthur forgets all his earlier tension and just breathes.

~#~

Merlin opens the cupboard door a crack, peering cautiously out. The corridor is clear. The two of them sneak out.

Merlin’s cheeks and chin are flushed, and his hair is at odd angles where Arthur has clutched onto it. Arthur feels laughter bubbling up, and Merlin flashes him a blinding grin. He hasn’t tiptoed around like this since he was a teenager. It’s the perfect cure for the stresses heaped upon him by his dysfunctional family.

They round a corner, encountering a sad-looking Mithian.

“There you are!” she says. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?” She looks closely at Merlin’s dishevelled appearance, and plucks a feather from his shirt. “What have you been doing, Merlin? Fighting ducks?”

Merlin looks terrified. He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobs. Arthur feels a sudden urge to rescue him.

“Er – we were – er – just reading some poetry,” Arthur gabbles.

Merlin nods vehemently. “Yeah, that’s right.” He looks relieved. “W.H. Auden. You know. Like the bloke in ‘Four Weddings’, right?”

“That was at a funeral!” Mithian’s suspicious eyes narrow and a crease appears between them, but luckily she’s too upset to pursue it. She bursts into tears, lets out a theatrical groan, clings onto Arthur.

“It should have been me!” she wails. “She still loves me, I know she does.”

Arthur catches Merlin’s eye over the top of her head, pulls an apologetic face. Merlin smiles at him faintly and turns back towards their room.

“I’ll just go and see if Gwaine’s—erm—finished, shall I?” Merlin says.

Arthur nods.

“See you in a bit, yeah?" Merlin continues, "For some more—erm—poetry? I’ll fish out my e e cummings shall I?” Arthur suppresses a snort of laughter.

~#~

Arthur escapes from Mithian, feeling a bit mean, by telling her that he has to go back to the reception, and that she should go and phone Gwen. Thus relieved of responsibility he hurries back to his room. He and Merlin have unfinished business to attend to.

Gwaine has been evicted, and Merlin is waiting for him on the bed, tugging gently at his jutting cock. It's an inviting sight. Arthur's mouth starts to salivate.  
“Hurry up, Arthur,” says Merlin, “I nearly finished without you.”

Arthur needs no second telling, he leaps onto the soft bed, and bats Merlin’s hand away so that he can take care of Merlin’s rampant erection. Merlin’s lets out a long, shuddering moan when Arthur’s lips close around his cock. The sound makes Arthur shiver, and he starts to harden again. Arthur adores Merlin's filthy, incoherent gasps and pleading cries.

Arthur can tell when Merlin’s close to coming. His hips start to rut up into Arthur’s mouth, his breathing becomes more irregular. Arthur doesn’t let up his rhythm.  
“I’m going to…” he pants out a warning, “I’m so close…” and suddenly bitter fluid floods into Arthur’s mouth, escaping his lips. “Holy shit,” cries Merlin.

At that moment there’s a bang on the door. “Merlin,” calls Mithian. “Merlin? Are you OK? I heard shouting.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to jump up as if scalded and tiptoe into the bathroom, locking the door. Merlin sprawls, panting on the bed, his arm thrown across his eyes. The pounding on the door starts again. “Merlin? Let me in, I need to talk and Gwen wasn’t answering the phone.”

“Mithian!” Merlin’s voice sounds weak and wobbly as he calls out through the door, “I’m fine, I was just—you know—having a private moment?”

There’s a pause while the penny drops and Arthur winces when he hears Mithian’s horrified “MERLIN! Ew! I thought you were in pain. God!”

“Sorry,” the poor guy whispers. He sounds mortified, but Arthur can’t risk intervening.

When he hears Mithian’s footsteps retreating down the corridor, he steps back into the bedroom and crawls up to take his place on the bed. He nuzzles Merlin’s shoulder and grins. They look at each other for a moment and burst out laughing.

“Poor Mithian,” Arthur chokes.

Merlin thumps him weakly on the shoulder. “Poor me, you bastard!” he says. A cunning expression flits across his face. “You’re going to have to do it again,” he says. “That one was interrupted, it doesn’t count.”

Arthur’s mouth drops open, mock horrified. “Excuse me!” he says, “Mr ‘HOLY SHIT’! Take that back, or you’ll be the one doing it again.”

“How about we both do it again?”

Arthur considers this suggestion for a nanosecond.

“All right,” he says, “that seems like a good compromise.”

 

~#~

 

They’re lying naked in Merlin’s bed, the duvet rucked up awkwardly between them. Merlin’s texting Gwen. Arthur’s using the camera on his phone to check out his teeth.

“Do you think my teeth are crooked?” says Arthur.

Merlin doesn’t answer at first, his fingers are busy with the phone. “Nah,” he says eventually, sitting up and stretching. “Well maybe a bit. But it’s a cute imperfection.”  
Arthur scowls. He doesn’t want to be cute. He wants to be dynamite. His teeth offend his sense of symmetry. Unlike Merlin’s ears, which are brilliantly symmetric.

Arthur studies them for a moment from behind, angling his head this way and that. Yep, perfect. He ditches the scowl in favour of a grin, traces Merlin’s spine with his finger. Merlin arches his back, ticklish, and shivers deliciously.

“Ready for round three yet?” Arthur says.

Merlin turns to him and smiles, symmetric dimples forming around his mouth. Arthur’s eyes dart from one to the other, fascinated.

“What?” says Merlin, watching Arthur’s eyes, still smiling.

“Nothing.” Arthur colours a little. He says something random, to cover his confusion. “So I guess we won’t be able to do this any more, in London.”

Merlin’s smile dims.

Arthur is saddened by the loss of dimples, and tries to retract. “I mean,” he says, “we’re still just mates, right?”

“Of course,” says Merlin, nodding. But the brilliance of his eyes has dulled.

Arthur’s cursing himself, racking his brains for some way of retrieving the situation. Merlin’s mouth quirks up at one corner. He runs an appreciative hand across Arthur’s pectorals, buries fingers into Arthur’s chest hair, tweaks the hairs a little until Arthur squeaks.

“Better not lose too much time now, then,” Merlin says in a low voice that makes Arthur’s breath hitch.

“Yeah,” says Arthur shakily. “Best not.” And his dick is sore, his arse is sore, his face is red with stubble burn, but he can’t tear himself away, not yet, because damnit it’s the best sex he’s ever had, and it’s _Merlin_ , and he doesn’t want it to stop.


	5. The one where Arthur's tea gets cold and they go to visit Gwen in hospital

About a week after they get back from Copenhagen, Merlin’s sitting on a crumby old leather sofa in the Battersea Buttery, reading The Economist. Arthur comes in, tired and hot after a morning shift at the burger bar. A kiss-curl of blond hair flops into his eyes and he squeezes them shut, pushes out his bottom lip, blows the hair up. 

His face looks so comical Merlin can’t resist laughing. Arthur scowls so prettily Merlin stands and pushes the lock of hair out of Arthur’s eyes. Then he feels all self-conscious and drops his hand. Arthur stares at him for a moment too long. 

“I was just…” says Merlin, gesturing behind him to the sofa.

“I wondered if…” says Arthur at the same time, gazing at the ceiling.

Mithian comes over. “Even more articulate than usual, you two.” 

Merlin gulps and sits heavily. “I… erm…” 

Mithian eye-rolls, pulling out a notebook. “You going to order anything?  
It’s just that Gaius is giving me funny looks.” 

“He’s just an old pervert,” says Arthur. 

“Don’t be mean!” says Mithian. But Merlin laughs, because it’s well known that Gaius despite his advanced age has a massive crush on Mithian. 

“I’ll have a mug of builders tea, please, Mith,” says Arthur, “and a banana muffin.” He flops onto the sofa next to Merlin, pressing his hot, firm thigh against Merlin’s, and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Merlin has to cross his legs to hide his reaction. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, clutching onto Arthur’s thigh like it’s a life-belt.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Arthur whispers back. They exchange a wordless glance behind Mithian’s retreating back. 

Merlin stands, jiggling his jeans around to get comfortable. “Just going to the loo,” he says to Arthur with a wink. “Back in a mo.” 

A couple of seconds later, Arthur scans the room surreptitiously before getting up to follow Merlin in. “Me too,” he says to no-one in particular. 

Some time later when Merlin returns to the table, a cold tea is congealing next to his discarded magazine. Merlin coughs, feels a bit hot, adjusts his collar. Mithian gives him an accusing glare. 

“Arthur’s tea is getting cold,” she says. “Where did he go?” 

“He’s just in the loo,” says Merlin, who had left Arthur trying to rinse the front of his trousers in the sink and dry them under the hand dryer. 

Mithian frowned. “He’s been ages.” 

“Yeah – erm – I think he’s feeling a bit unwell,” Merlin improvises. “I heard retching noises, you know.” He mimes throwing up into his hand. 

Just then Arthur returns, looking remarkably perky. His trousers look only slightly damp but his face is pink with stubble burn. He coughs and looks shifty. 

“Damn, I let my tea get cold,” he says. 

Merlin mimes behind Mithian’s back. Arthur frowns for a moment, trying to decipher Merlin’s meaning. Then his face clears. 

“Oh,” he says. “Feeling a bit sick, you know.” As if to give the lie to his words he downs the cold tea and bites into his banana muffin. “Delicious,” he mumbles. 

Mithian scowls at them both. “I don’t know what game you think you are playing,” she says, with a haughty air, “but I don’t think it’s funny to take the piss out of your friends.” She whisks the half-eaten muffin away, ignoring Arthur’s protests.  
~#~ 

Morgana’s back, without her bride, but Arthur knows better than to ask about it. She’s sitting on the sofa in Arthur's flat, munching one of Arthur’s home-made biscuits, watching repeats of “Sherlock,” when the call comes in on the land line. She jumps up to pick up the receiver.

“It’s Elyan,” she says in a sibilant whisper, holding her hand over phone. Mithian jumps onto the sofa next to her one side, Arthur on the other. 

“What time? Which hospital?” she says. Arthur’s frustrated, he can’t hear the other side of the conversation. 

When Morgana replaces the phone her eyes are blown wide with excitement. “It's Elyan!" she says. "Gwen' having the triplets today!” Her voice is a bit squeaky. “They’re at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.” 

“Well what are we waiting for, then,” says Arthur, leaping up from the sofa. He pauses to rearrange the CD’s in alphabetical order where Morgana’s left them in disarray, runs into the kitchen, pours cookies into a Tupperware container, returns to the living room, pulls on his trainers and dives to the door. 

He still manages to get there before Mithian has decided which shoes to wear. 

He pulls out his mobile and fumbles a couple of text messages out to Gwaine and Merlin while he waits for Morgana to decide which coat she needs. Arthur sighs and rolls his eyes when she changes her mind for the tenth time, and takes the opportunity to dash into his room for condoms and lube. Well, he’s going to be seeing Merlin, so he wants to be prepared. 

Merlin and Gwaine join them in the taxi, and the mood is excited. “Are you sure she wants us all there?” says Mithian. Merlin’s leg is braced against Arthur’s, hot and hard. Arthur shifts minutely so that he can cram his hand into Merlin’s back pocket without anyone noticing. He kneads Merlin’s buttock until he squirms. 

“Of course she does,” says Gwaine. “Anyway, I need to be there, because, well, hello, nurses?” he shrugs. 

“More than 50% of student doctors are women, these days, you know, dinosaur,” says Arthur, grinning. 

“I knew that,” says Gwaine. Arthur knows he didn’t.

“Don’t insult dinosaurs,” says Morgana, haughtily. “They were highly adapted, complex creatures, many of whom had complex social arrangements, unlike Gwaine.” 

Arthur looks out of the window, suppressing his grin. Morgana is such a dinosaur nerd, and so easy to tease. 

"They've been extinct for like 10 million years, Morgana," he says. "You don't need to defend them, you know."

"63 million, actually" she says, scowling. "Ignoramus." 

"Besides which," Arthur carries on, finger raised to silence her, "They would have eaten you for breakfast." 

"Most of them were herbivorous, Arthur," she begins to lecture him, but then sees how he and Merlin are nudging each other and grinning. 

"Oh I hate you, little brother," she says. Arthur and Merlin burst out laughing and she sulks all the rest of the way.

They’re nearly at the hospital, and Arthur’s leaping out of the cab. Gwaine pays the driver. She’s a very sweet-looking girl with ginger hair and dimples. 

“Hi,” says Gwaine, pulling out a wad of cash, grinning lopsidedly. “How’re _you_ doin’?” He waves at Merlin, Mithian and Arthur to go on without him. 

They soon find that a labour ward is less about action and excitement and more about waiting around. Gwen’s sitting up in bed, drinking tea, attached to monitors, her belly bulging out in front of her, Elyan by her side. She’s chatting animatedly to a jaw-droppingly handsome doctor. Arthur reads his name-tag: Lancelot Dulac. There’s a suspicious-looking sparkle in her eyes. 

“OH! hello everyone,” she says, voice a little too animated. Hmm, Arthur thinks. Could just be the hormones. But Gwen's always had a thing for men in uniforms, and he thinks a white coat and stethoscope will probably do the trick. 

The doctor huffs, points to the sign on the wall which says “no more than two visitors at any one time.” 

“Sorry folks,” he says, “you’re going to have to choose who sees the patient, it’s not fair on the rest of the people on the ward otherwise.” 

Merlin nudges Arthur with his elbow and they start to edge away. “It’s OK,” says Merlin. “We’ll go and find somewhere quiet to erm. Wait.“

Arthur takes a second or two to twig. He locks eyes with Merlin, sees his lips twitch. 

“Yeah,” says Arthur, suppressing a grin of his own. “Somewhere quiet. Where we won't be disturbing anyone.” 

They turn and walk out, bumping elbows. Arthur has a spring in his step. He gets the condom out of his back pocket, hides it in his palm. He nudges Merlin, lets a flash of the wrapper show. Merlin flushes pink to the tips of his ears and grins. 

They lengthen their strides

~#~

“Where shall we go?” hisses Merlin out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Laundry cupboard?” says Arthur. “Remember Copenhagen?” 

They chuckle, remembering Copenhagen. 

“Yeah,” says Merlin. “Gwaine’s been wondering why I’m so keen to do laundry recently. I’ve not had the heart tell him that the scent of fresh laundered towels gives me a hard-on.”

Arthur doubles up laughing. They spot a cupboard on the left, and open the door. It’s full of clean bedlinen. The door doesn’t lock. 

“We can’t shut it,” says Merlin, frustrated. The bulge in Merlin’s trousers makes Arthur salivate. 

“I'll fuck you against the door,” says Arthur, hurriedly undoing his belt. “I’m so horny I’ll come in about 2 seconds anyway.” 

“Hey, what about me?” 

“I’ll suck you off afterwards.” 

Arthur’s rewarded with a breathless moan that goes straight to his cock. 

“Christ, Merlin,” he says, with an answering moan, attacking Merlin’s jeans. They’re practically hanging off him anyway, it doesn’t take long to drag them down. He swivels Merlin round to face the door. Merlin's arms thud against it as he bends over. 

Arthur wastes no time getting the condom on and lubing up his fingers and prick. Merlin’s tugging his cock with one hand, the other arm pressed up against the door. His head is turned into his arm to gag his own moans. Arthur's thumbs spread him open, and he preps Merlin with trembling, slippery fingers. 

Merlin releases his mouth from his arm. There are drops of saliva dripping from his wiry black arm hairs. 

“Fuck me, Arthur. Quick before someone tries to open this fucking door.”

Arthur groans. It’s all too quick, but he loves it, loves the sound of desperation in Merlin’s voice, loves its adrenaline-fueled urgency. 

He presses his hard cock into Merlin. Merlin hisses for a moment, fingers scrabbling on the door as he adjusts to the stretch, and then pushes back. 

“Jesus, Merlin,” Arthur says, “so tight, so hot for me.” 

Merlin lets out a long, breathy moan. “It’s OK Arthur,” he says, voice cracking. “I can take it.” 

Arthur needs no second telling. He stretches forward across Merlin’s back, slides his hand up Merlin’s t-shirt for purchase, and fucks Merlin with hard, long strokes. He can feel Merlin's heart juddering against his ribs, hear the rhythmic tap-tap of the door butting against the skirting. 

When he comes, his legs give way and he sinks, trembling to his knees. Merlin turns and pulls him forward, pressing his own back to the door. 

“Suck me off, Arthur,” he says. “Just do it, quick, mate.” 

Merlin’s fat purple prick is nudging his lips open. Arthur lets it in and sucks, swirling his tongue under the uncut foreskin. Merlin groans again, burying his long fingers in Arthur’s hair, pushing him down onto his prick. He’s not doing a great job of keeping quiet, but Arthur can’t bring himself to care. 

“So good, so good,” Merlin chants in a breathless whisper. “So good, love. So good.” 

Arthur takes that warm word “love” and tucks it into his heart. 

He grasps Merlins hot, firm buttocks, feels them tense and judder under his fingers when Merlin comes. He sucks the bitter liquid and swallows. 

And it should be awkward, cleaning each other up in that claustrophobic laundry cupboard, tucking each other in, wiping every surface with antiseptic wipes, finding a suitable place to dispose of the used condom. But it isn’t. Because they’re both giggly, shaky and pink, post-orgasmic and high on adrenalin. Because it's Merlin, and they're mates, and they look out for each other. Because it's silly, and urgent, and satisfying, and quite brilliant. 

They cling onto each other, laugh, and cover each other’s faces with stubbly kisses. 

Then, while Arthur takes a moment to straighten some of the towels which haven’t been lined up properly on the shelf, Merlin opens the door and peers out. 

“Coast’s clear,” he says in a melodramatic whisper, and he tiptoes out. 

Arthur waits a minute or two, arranging the unused antiseptic wipes into neat piles, and follows him, trying to look nonchalant. It’s a good thing no-one’s watching, he thinks, because he’s pretty sure they couldn’t have been more obvious if they’d tried.


	6. The one where Gwaine calls Arthur a moose

Gwaine’s pounding on Merlin’s door. “Merlin, can I borrow your _Epic Urea_ T-shirt mate? I’ve got an audition for a Chemistry teacher role. Mate?”

Trouble is, Merlin’s not in any fit state to open his bedroom door, seeing as he’s currently pressed hard up against it, with his knob buried deep in Arthur’s throat. Arthur pulls back a little and tongues the head of his prick. Merlin whimpers. Why does Gwaine have to be back so bloody early? Why can’t he be ten minutes later? It’s not asking much.

“Merlin? I know you’re in there, I can hear your friggin’ awful indie music.”

Arthur’s looking up at him, wrapping his perfect lips, pink and taut, round Merlin’s cock. Merlin bites his lip, trying not to make a noise, and Arthur’s eyes flutter closed. It’s the most perfect sight. Merlin’s hands are in Arthur’s hair, pulling his head in closer. Arthur lets one slicked-up hand push between Merlin’s legs, probing between his tense buttocks.

Merlin groans, loudly, he can’t help it, and his head bangs back against the door. His pulse is racing so hard he can’t speak.

“Merlin! Are you wanking?”

Gwaine’s voice sounds terribly near now, as if his mouth is up against the keyhole. It probably is. Merlin hopes he doesn’t try to peep through.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “Yeah, that’s it.” He’s not sure who he’s talking to at this point. “Oh God, yeah, nnngh,” and finally he’s tipping over, Arthur sucking him greedily down until he’s  sensitive and limp, until he falls to his knees beside Arthur on the carpet.

“Fuck,” he whispers to Arthur, and they exchange a conspiratorial grin. He pulls him in for a messy kiss, tastes himself on Arthur’s mouth, and starts to giggle.

Gwaine bangs on the door again. “You finished yet? You’re bloody noisy these days, Merlin, what’re you doing different? Got a new toy or somethin’ like that?”

“Something like that” Merlin breathes. Arthur starts to laugh and Merlin clamps a hand over his mouth, shushing him.

“Merlin?” says Gwaine. “Is someone in there with you?” Arthur shakes his head violently, mouthing “NO!”

“Erm,” says Merlin, “No, no, I’m… I’m… erm… I’m watching porn, sorry mate, you might be able to hear. Erm. That. The porn, I mean.” He and Arthur grin at each other, making mirror-image thumbs up signs and laughing, silently.

They can hear Gwaine harrumph. “Can I come in? Must be great porn, making you sound like that. Jeez, I'm feeling horny now.”

“NO!” says Merlin. “It’s, erm, too erm too boring. It’s really rubbish really. You’d hate it.”

“Ah, right,” says Gwaine, a knowing note creeping into his voice. “Ah! I get it, It’s some kink you’re embarrassed about. Hey man, I’m the last to judge anything like that. Whatever swings your boat, man.”

Arthur’s efforts at suppressing his laughter aren’t working very well at all. He snorts. 

“Are you sure there’s no-one in there with you?” says Gwaine.

“Nah, mate, nah,” says Merlin, mirth bubbling over into his voice, “I’ll just. Erm. Clean up. You can borrow my T-shirt. I’ll bring it out.”

When he slides out through the door he makes sure that Arthur’s positioned behind it, where Gwaine can’t see, and that there’s only a small crack, so that Gwaine can’t push through into the room, because he’s an inquisitive bugger.

“Sorry to interrupt you mate,” says Gwaine, but then he’s staring hard at Merlin’s neck. “Is that a hickey?” The guilty way that Merlin puts a hand up is a dead giveaway. “You sly dog! You’ve got someone in there, haven’t you.” He steps towards the door.

“No!” says Merlin. “I mean yes. But. He’s. Erm." Merlin stares at the ceiling for inspiration. "Shy?” Gwaine thrusts him to one side. Merlin struggles and stops him from opening the door. “And. He’s got a hideous disfiguring disease. Obviously, because, well, it’s me?” he indicates his slight figure self-deprecatingly. “Could I _be_ more desperate? I have to take what I can get. Obviously.”

Shit. Arthur’s left his keys and his distinctive “I [heart] Copenhagen” key-ring on the table. Merlin hopes Gwaine hasn’t spotted them.

“Look!” he says, pointing at the door.

"What?” says Gwaine, turning, puzzled, and Merlin swipes the keys, putting them in his pocket.

“Erm – oh, it wasn’t what I thought,” says Merlin.

Gwaine sighs, turning back, a suspicious frown on his face. “Look, Merlin, mate, don’t put yourself down, OK?” he says. “You don’t need to settle for some ugly moose of a bloke, OK? Look, why don’t you come out with me and…?”

“Don’t you have an audition?” says Merlin, thrusting his T-shirt into Gwaine’s hand.

Gwaine looks startled, and then checks his watch. “Bloody hell,” he says. “I’d better get a shift on. OK Merlin, we can sort out your sex life later. Bye, Merlin. Bye, Moose!” he shouts through Merlin’s door.

There’s a muffled “Bye” from the other side, the door bangs and then Gwaine’s gone.

The door opens a crack. “Is it OK to come out?” whispers Arthur frowning. “Or is my _hideous disfigurement_ too vile for me to be seen in public.”

Merlin’s stricken for a moment but then Arthur’s face splits in a cheeky smile.

“Gotcha!” he says.

Merlin grins back. “C’mere, _Moose_!” he says.

The two men embrace, and burst into fits of manic laughter.

“It’s your turn to suck me off,” says Arthur. So they go back into Merlin’s room and close the door. Because fair’s fair.  

Obviously. 

 

~#~


	7. The one where Merlin gets bitten on the bum

Arthur has an amazing arse. It’s beautifully rotund, firm without being scrawny. Each cheek is moulded perfectly to fit Merlin’s hands, sculpted for enhancing Merlin’s enjoyment of conjugal acts. Sometimes Merlin just likes to spend several minutes just looking at those glorious orbs, set before him like a feast. They tense and twitch in anticipation, naked and flushed pink, with that fine scattering of pale golden hairs. Oh yes, Merlin adores Arthur’s gorgeous, gorgeous arse. It calls to him.

When Merlin walks into the Battersea Buttery that fine Wednesday evening, they’re all there, for once, even Morgana, who is relating the story about why she is better off without Morgause, and fluttering her lashes at Mithian.

After gently tapping Arthur’s pert rump, just being friendly, to say hello, as it were, Merlin looks round and realises that everyone’s looking at him. Morgana is frowning and Gwen’s eyes are glued to Merlin’s hand, which is poised to give Arthur’s bum a gentle squeeze.

He lowers his hand.

Not good. Not good at all. Morgana has been known to eat Arthur’s boyfriends and girlfriends alive. Several of them are on missing-persons lists. He laughs nervously and rubs his hands on his thighs.

“What’s with the bum slapping, you two?” says Gwen.

Uh-oh. She’s got that “inquisitive” tone in her voice that means she’s not going to let this go. Merlin gulps and exchanges a terrified look with Arthur.

“What? Oh that?” he says, nonchalant as you please. “Oh, I forgot,” he says, “you didn’t go to Copenhagen. It’s just a Danish greeting thing, you know. It’s like, how the Danes greet one another. When they’re good mates. They were all doing it, weren’t they Arthur?” He nods at Arthur, raising his eyebrows in encouragement. Arthur looks startled for a moment before nodding back.

“Oh – er, yeah. It’s the Danish way. Apparently,” says Arthur.

Merlin gives Arthur another encouraging nod, and turns his back.

Arthur slaps his butt, hard. “Hi Merlin,” he says in a menacing growl, which has a hint of “Just you wait til later,” to it that Merlin finds quite rousing.

Merlin swallows, mentally talking down his body’s reaction to Arthur’s voice, and turns to Gwaine, all eyes still on him. He gives Gwaine’s buttock an experimental tap. “Hi Gwaine,” he says, trying not to let his voice go all high-pitched and trembly. Gwaine looks worryingly intrigued.

“Hey, I didn’t notice the Danes doing that,” says he.

Merlin snorts. “You had your tongue down that girl’s throat all the time. I’m surprised you even noticed you weren’t in Battersea any more.”

Gwaine slaps Merlin’s bum so hard it makes him jump. “Hi Merlin!” he says. He turns and eyes the rest of the group, appraisingly. “Ha! I could get used to this!” He approaches Morgana, hand poised.

“If you even think about touching my arse I will emasculate you, eviscerate you and then defenestrate you,” she says, eyes narrowing to slits.

“I don’t even know what those words mean,” he says, leering. “Is that something kinky? Or something bad?”

“BAD!” chorus the others. Gwaine adopts a hurt expression and slinks off to the loo.

Merlin sits down to drink his tea and tries to ignore the way that Arthur’s gaze is boring into him. Until he can’t. They exchange a look. Merlin glances out of the corner of his eye. Morgana’s chatting animatedly to Gwen; Mithian’s arguing with Gaius, and Gwaine is still in the loo.

Arthur smirks at him, and sucks iced tea suggestively through his straw. He breaks the seal, and mouths “Gonna spank you, hard,” at Merlin, indicating the action with a minute movement of his right hand. Merlin crosses his legs and tries not to grin, but can’t stop himself from blushing and pursing his lips in a tiny moue.

He notices Gwen’s eyes on him and covers his mouth with a cough. Arthur chokes on his iced tea.

Luckily for Merlin, Gwen’s distracted when the door opens. In strolls the handsome obstetrician, Mr. Lance DuLac. She’s asked him to pop round, but didn’t think that he would. She trembles violently, dropping her muffin and cursing like a fishwife, then clamping her hand to her mouth in horror at the words that just came out.

Her confusion is eclipsed, however, when Gwaine comes out of the loo and strides over to Lance. “How’re _you_ doin?” he says, in a friendly voice. The shocked expression on Lance’s face when Gwaine slaps him soundly on the arse is priceless.

~#~

At dusk they all walk back from the Battersea Buttery towards the pub. The others are in front: Gwen’s in a hurry to take her handsome doctor to the pub, Morgana’s escorting Mithian there, and Gwaine’s thirsty. Arthur and Merlin linger a little, letting the rest of them turn the corner as they walk through Battersea Park. It’s quiet at this time; the park officially closes at dusk. But there are still some gates open for access to the all-weather football pitches, and the cognoscenti will be able to get in and out for a couple more hours.

Arthur waits until the others are out of view before he slaps Merlin’s rump. “You were a bad boy today, Merlin,” he says in a low voice.

Merlin slaps him back. “It’s your fault for having delicious, pert glutei maximi. I take none of the blame.” His hands stay where they are, fingers gripping Arthur’s bum for dear life, pulling him in.

Arthur thinks he’ll leave bruises. He doesn’t mind. He kisses Merlin’s pouty lips, which have been provoking and teasing him all evening. He groans into Merlin’s mouth. “Been thinking about spanking your bony little bum for hours,” he says. “So horny it hurts.”

“Me too,” says Merlin, voice trembling a bit. As one their gaze is drawn to a nearby rhododendron bush. There’s a welcoming-looking dark cave at its base. They turn to one another and grin.

“I’ve got some condoms and lube in my pocket,” says Arthur.

“What are we waiting for?”

“Let’s go.”

~#~

It’s only about twenty minutes later when the two of them emerge cautiously from the depths of the rhododendrons, and saunter jauntily out of the park, stopping only to deposit a bundle, which looks very much like it's been wrapped in a sock (for discretion), into the bin. Both men have slightly muddy stains on their knees, and pink chins.

Arthur comes back a minute later and puts the other sock in the bin. It wouldn’t do to have odd ones.

~#~

They finally turn up at the pub—separately, so that Morgana won’t be suspicious. Merlin’s left buttock is a tiny bit itchy. He puts it down to all the slapping, and thinks nothing of it at first. But it gradually gets worse and worse, so that he is squirming in his seat to try to get some relief.

When he goes to the loo it’s so painful he tries to take a look at it in the mirror. He’s like that, arse bare, gazing in the mirror, when Gwaine comes in and bursts out laughing. Merlin’s face burns with the humiliation and he hastily pulls his pants back up.

“What're you doing?” says Gwaine, between sniggers.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “I think I’ve been bitten on the bum,” he says.

“Surely you’d know something like that for sure.”

“Not like that!” says Merlin, defensively. “By a mosquito or something. It’s killing me.”

“Want me to take a look?”

“Dear God, no!”

Just then Lance comes in. “Hey!” says Gwaine. “Why don’t you get Lance to look at it. He’s a doctor!”

“No way! Gwaine! I’ve only just met him, besides, he looks at lady bits.”

“What’s up?” says Lance.

“Merlin here has been attacked by a swarm of insects,” says Gwaine. “And he’s being a bit of a girl about it.”

“I am not!”

“Sure, I’ll take a look,” says Lance.

Merlin sighs. They’re clearly not going to let him out til he’s shown them his arse. Great. He gives in. He turns his back, and carefully lets his pants slide just far enough down to show Lance the sore bit. 

“Bloody hell, Merlin,” Gwaine says in awe. “There must be thirty bites on there!”

Merlin moans. It’s just bloody typical. Mosquitoes love him. He could be in a room full of people, in a swamp, and all the mosquitoes would just ignore all the other folk and converge upon him to chomp. It’s so unfair. Gwaine and Lance are still staring at Merlin’s exposed arse cheek, pointing out the most interesting features of the wound, when Arthur comes into the room to join in the fun.

“Been having sex in the park, haven’t you?” says Gwaine, knowingly. “It’s OK, you can tell Uncle Gwaine. Who have you been having sex with? Is it the moose?”

Merlin rolls his eyes, and pulls up his pants. He's had enough humiliation for one evening. “All right, all right. Yeah, I had sex in the park. With the guy. You know. The one you called a moose. I’ve been having fantastic sex with someone recently, someone really quite brilliant, actually, and you know what, it’s the best sex I’ve ever had, so I don’t feel like I have to justify myself to anyone, all right?” Feeling his face reddening again, he covers up his sore arse and leaves the room.

Arthur comes up to him and catches his arm.

“The best sex you ever had? Really?” he says in a quiet voice, and his eyes are so soft and sweet that Merlin wants to kiss him then and there.

But the girls are watching, so he just whispers “Yeah, really,” and smiles back before turning away.

When they get back to the others, all three girls are giving them accusing looks.

“Been powdering your noses, boys?” Morgana says.

Gwen giggles. “I thought it was girls who were meant to spend hours in the loos together,” she says.

Mithian nods. “Generally we only spend that much time in the loo when we’re discussing someone’s sex life,” she says. “So who is it? Go on, spill the beans, boys.”

Gwaine slides into the seat next to Morgana and puts his arm round her. “Apparently,” he says, “Merlin’s been having fantastic sex, with a brilliant moose. I think it’s worth spending ten minutes in the gents loo to hear about _that_ , don’t you?”

“Wow,” says Gwen. “That’s amazing.”

“What’s so amazing?” says Lancelot.

Gwen flashes her dimples at him, “I didn’t know we had moose here in the U.K.!”


	8. The one where Arthur stands up to Morgana

“Please, Arthur. You’ll be doing me a big favour, and anyway, you haven’t had a date in such a long time.”

“I don’t need any help getting a date, Morgana!”

“Don’t be ridiculous Arthur. Look at the two of us. Gwen’s hitched to her obstetrician, Mith’s got a date with the lovely Freya next week, Gwaine dips his wick about twice a day, and even Merlin’s been getting his end away,” says Morgana. “And then there’s you and me. Mr Unmarriable and Mrs Divorcee of the year. It’s about time the two of us had a break, and anyway my background checks on Daegal have all been very impressive.”

That, right there, is why Morgana Must Never Know about Merlin. She hires private investigators to check up on Arthur’s prospective boyfriends and girlfriends. He shudders at the thought of the kind of person that she might think is suitable for him.

“No, no and thrice nay. I will _not_ go on a double date with you, Morgana. It would just be too weird.” Merlin’s right. Arthur has given in to Morgana too many times, and now is where it stops. He is putting his foot down. Both feet. For symmetry. Firmly.

Morgana pouts. Her bottom lip protrudes and her lashes bat.

“No, Morgana, that won’t work on me, I’m your brother, remember.” He’s very proud of his strong willed stance. This time she will definitely not succeed in talking him round. He has Merlin to think of, after all, although obviously she can never know that.

But her expression turns both smug and sly. She smirks. “Very well, Arthur,” she says, turning away, extracting an envelope from her handbag and waving it about, carelessly.  “I’ll just have to find someone else to come with us to the match on Saturday.”

“Yeah, you will, Morgana, and let that be a lesson to you.”

“Such a shame,” she carries on, and he’s absolutely not cracking now, Merlin will be so proud. “What with you being such a big Arsenal fan and all.”

“Yeah, well you needn’t think…  Wait! Which match?”

“The. Erm. What do you call it now – FA cup final is it? On Saturday?”

“You have tickets to the FA cup final?” He tries to grab the envelope from her, but she runs away cackling. She stops at the door and blows a kiss.

“That’s right little brother, Sefa’s a big Arsenal fan,” she says, stepping outside, “so if you want to come, you’d better agree to the double date with her and Daegal. Au revoir!” The door slams.

~#~

They sit in the Battersea Buttery discussing the plans for the match on Saturday.

“So, Arthur. Daegal and Sefa will come and pick us up at 1. You had better be ready,” says Morgana.

Gwen flashes a big smile at Arthur. “I think you’ll like Daegal,” she says. “He’s very sweet, I think he’ll be good for you. He has very kissable-looking lips.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m fine, I don’t need you setting me up on dates.”

“Yes you do, little brother,” says Morgana. “You haven’t been on a date since you dumped that commitment-phobe Myror. I can’t help thinking you are still pining. It’ll do you good to get out. There’s no need to be worried, the mistake you made with Myror will not be repeated if you let me vet them for you. ”

“You’re a deeply sinister person, Morgana,” says Gwaine, an admiring tone in his voice. The look she gives him is laced with sharp steel.

“Gwaine obviously would never make the cut,” she says menacingly.

Merlin hasn’t said a word. He is uncharacteristically quiet, and when Arthur tries to catch his eye he can’t. There’s a deep line between Merlin’s eyebrows. It looks alien there. Arthur wants to smooth it away.

Gwen notices Merlin's discomfort. “Are you all right?” she says, looking concerned.

“I’m just – er – “ says Merlin. “A bit tired.” And with a strained-looking smile he gets up to leave. Fighting a sudden urge to rise and stop him, Arthur feels his chest tighten. But he can’t get up now, not without attracting Morgana’s attention.

“Up all night with the moose, were you?” Gwen chuckles.

"Something like that," says Merlin. The girls have their backs to him and just wave him away. Merlin’s standing behind the girls, so they can’t see that his expression is more a grimace than a smile. It looks so unnatural on him, it makes Arthur’s throat hurt.

He makes a quick decision and turns to Morgana.

“Look, thanks and all that, Morgs, but I’ve decided not to come. I had plans for Saturday already,” Arthur says. “And I don’t want to let the other person down. It’s lovely of you to get me a ticket to see my team play a really important match. But maybe next time, you might ask me who I want to take, rather than setting me up with a stranger of your choice.”

He’s the only one that sees how Merlin’s face softens and his smile broadens. The pain in Arthur’s chest eases and disappears.

Morgana, however, looks furious. “What plans?” she says in the sort of biting tones that have undergraduates hiding under the desks during her tutorials.

Arthur shrugs. “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he says.

He is a little bit nervous about what she might do with that, but what the hell?

~#~

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” says Merlin, later. They’re kicking back on Arthur’s sofa in front of the TV, an open bottle of Pinot Noir in front of them. Arthur’s reorganising Mithian’s vinyl collection. “I know how important Arsenal is to you.”

Arthur looks up and smiles. “There are other things that are more important,” he says. “And… this… erm…thing...you,” he coughs. “Erm. I mean. Standing up to Morgana is one of them.” For a moment, there, he starts to say something else. But he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile, delicate thing that they have, doesn’t want to ruin it by saying it out loud. “The price she wanted me to pay was too high,” he says instead, and he hopes Merlin understands. “Do you think I should put Led Zeppelin under ‘blues’ or ‘rock’?”

Merlin turns to Arthur and touches his chin, gently pulling his face round. Arthur closes his eyes and feels Merlin’s lips warm against his. A soft ache blooms in his chest when he moves to deepen the kiss.

“Thanks,” whispers Merlin, his breath caressing Arthur’s mouth, a hint of wine in it.  “I know we’re just friends, right, but the thought of you… on a date with someone, someone else kissing these lips, it felt … odd. Wrong. I hated it.”

“I hated it too,” confesses Arthur, touching Merlin’s moist, pink bottom lip with his finger. “I couldn’t imagine kissing any other lips than these perfect ones, right here. And I hated to be the one that made you look like that.”

Arthur can see a hint of a sparkle amid Merlin’s crinkling eyes.

“I love being the one that makes you look like this, though,” he adds, moving in for another kiss, tracing the line of Merlin’s jaw with his lips. Merlin lets out a delicate sigh. “The one who makes you sound like this,” Arthur adds.

Mithian’s rare Led Zeppelin vinyl slips out of his hand and onto the floor with a forlorn clatter. Arthur needs his hand for something else entirely. When Merlin shifts his hips a little and moans, Arthur knows he’s made the right decision not to go to the match. He doesn’t want to name the feelings that are developing, not yet, but he knows they are important.

“I’m not sure,” says Merlin.

Arthur frowns. “About this?”

Merlin bashes his arm. “No, prat. I mean, I think it might be neither rock nor blues. It might be folk. Let’s have a listen.”

Merlin puts the vinyl on and returns to the sofa, straddling Arthur and burying his hands in his hair. He grinds his crotch into Arthur’s to the rhythm of “Since I've Been Loving You” until Arthur’s hard and panting with want. The rolling bass guitar is like a caress, the screaming lead guitar and lamenting vocals sound like sex.

“You’re wrong,” whispers Arthur, tongue darting out to tease Merlin’s lips. He rolls his hips in time with the slow, inexorable rhythm of the music, meeting the warm bulge in Merlin’s jeans with his own, and groans. “This isn’t folk music at all. It’s fuck music.”

Merlin chuckles , his breath filling Arthur’s lungs. He pulls away from the kiss and leans in to Arthur’s ear, nibbling the lobe and tickling him with hot puffs of air. “Seems like a shame to waste it?” he says, fumbling at Arthur’s trousers and palming him through his pants. Arthur gasps when Merlin releases him, his hand firm and insistent like Arthur’s prick. “Want me to fuck you here or in your room?” says Merlin.

“Here,” Arthur croaks. He wants to feel the relentless drag of Merlin’s thick cock inside him. “Here, now, stop teasing me, bitch.”

“Bossy.”

Arthur manoeuvres himself out from underneath Merlin and drops his trousers and pants. “Better get on with it,” he says. “They’ll be back soon.”

Merlin struggles out of his jeans and pants, slinging them onto the sofa, and he’s already got the condom on when he manhandles Arthur so that he’s face down across the arm. “Going to fuck you slow. Going to fuck you hard. So hard. You won’t be able to walk without feeling me,” he says. He caresses Arthur’s buttocks, not too gently, his fingers digging into the muscle, drawing firm circles on Arthur’s flesh until Arthur groans. “God, you’ve got a perfect arse, Arthur. It’s so pretty and so beautifully round. I love watching myself digging into it, watching my prick bury itself between those perfect mounds.” The words slice into Arthur’s stomach like curls of want. “Going to make you beg for more. You'll feel me for days. Days, Arthur.”

Arthur moans. 

When Merlin slicks his fingers and starts opening Arthur, Arthur can hardly breathe, his body is so keyed up. Merlin’s fingers are playing him like a bass guitar, strumming and pressing at his nerves, making them sing. All the while he’s breathing filth into Arthur’s ear. “You’re so tight and hot for me, Arthur. God. Can’t wait to push my prick into you.”

“Bloody well do it then,” says Arthur, gratified at the hoarse tremble in Merlin’s voice, but so aroused he’s rutting into the cool leather sofa arm.

“Patience,” says Merlin, but then, Oh! At bloody last, Arthur feels the delicious, slow slide of Merlin’s length pressing into him. His fingers scrabble for purchase. It burns, and the angle is all wrong. He hisses, shifting his hips, and Merlin stops.

“Don’t you dare stop now,” Arthur growls.

 “I was thinking…”

“Don’t think, idiot. Move.”

Merlin does, and it’s perfect. Especially when he reaches round with those long teasing fingers, and gently tugs Arthur’s straining cock in time with his thrusting hips. Merlin hits a bundle of nerves inside Arthur and he cries out, feeling everything tighten and tense in a sweet crescendo. Thanks to all the earlier teasing Arthur only takes a few strokes and then he’s coming, pulsing all over the sofa, coating it with hot white stripes. Merlin lets out a choking cry and stills, his body heavy and warm along Arthur’s back.

It takes them a while to clean it all up, giggly and sheepish at what they’ve just done. Merlin gathers his clothes together, but for some reason can’t find his underpants, and Arthur laughs at the comical sight of Merlin’s bare arse in the air when he goes looking for them under the sofa.

Grinning, Merlin shrugs. “Fuck it, they were Gwaine’s anyway. I’ll go commando,” he says, and pulls on his jeans.

There’s a lingering odour of warm latex, mingled with the unmistakeable earthy scent of sex, so Arthur lights one of Mithian’s aromatherapy candles and then clatters round the kitchen to prepare some food.

When the girls come in, later than expected, Arthur and Merlin are sitting, fed and freshly showered, on the debauched sofa, supping another glass of Pinot Noir, and laughing at the TV.

Morgana slips in between Arthur and Merlin. 

“So, little brother, what have you been up to this evening?”

“I’ve been reorganising Mithian’s vinyls,” he says. He points to the shelves, which are neatly arranged by genre and colour coded. “They were offensively higgledy piggledy.”

“Really?” says Morgana. She looks at him closely. “You look a little flushed. Are you sure you are all right?”

Merlin clears his throat and gets up to leave. “I’ll just… erm…”

Morgana shuffles along the sofa, and one of the cushions falls onto the floor. A pair of Liverpool FC underpants lurks underneath it. She picks them up and glares accusingly at Arthur. “Arthur! You haven’t?”

“Haven’t what?”

“Been _abusing_ yourself on our couch?”

He gulps. “Erm…”

Mithian chimes in. “Those can’t be Arthur’s,” she says, peering closely at the offending articles. “They’re far too small. And anyway, Liverpool? Arthur’s an Arsenal supporter.” She gives him an inquisitive look. “Who do you know that supports Liverpool, Arthur?”

“Gwaine supports Liverpool,” says Morgana.

“Ew!” says Mithian.

Arthur’s going hot and cold at the thought that Morgana might deduce whose pants she is holding. He looks up at Merlin for help, but Merlin’s face looks panic-stricken, he’ll be as much use as a chocolate tea-pot.

“Don’t just sit there opening and closing your mouth like a fish, Arthur,” says Morgana, and how does she do that? Make her voice sound like a glacier calving into the sea? “Spill the beans.”

Arthur sighs. “All right, harpy,” he says. “I have found someone. Someone a bit brilliant, actually. I’ve been having the most amazing sex with someone, really quite unbelievably hot sex, with someone fantastic, who fucks like a train, on our couch. I thoroughly intend to continue doing so at every available opportunity.  Because, well, it’s just the hottest sex I have ever had. And it’s none of your business who it is, I’m never going to tell you, because he doesn’t want Morgana prying into his family’s history, _yea unto the nth generation_ , nosy bloody witch that she is. And no, it’s not Gwaine. Hope that clears things up.”

He looks round the room and now it’s the girls who are gaping at him, fishlike. Merlin, however, is gazing at him so admiringly, so adoringly, that he has to take a sudden breath with the intensity of the feeling it arouses in him. It’s an expression he particularly appreciates on Merlin’s face, it suits him. He makes a note to ensure that it appears there regularly in future.

Morgana leaps to her feet as if scalded. “You know what this means, Mithian?” she chokes, horrified. Mithian shakes her head.

“Penises!” Morgana says, voice high and squeaky. “On this sofa! I don’t think I can ever sit on it again!”

But Mithian laughs. “Don’t be such a prude,” she says. “It’s _Arthur_ you’re talking about, here. There are probably fewer germs in this room now than there were before he got entangled in Mr Pants and his amazing red undergarments.” She sits on the sofa and admires her vinyl collection.

Smiling, Gwen joins her. “Arthur?” she says. “I’m impressed. You finally got to grips with the fact that the music industry is a corrupt bandwagon for exploiting starving artists. I’m so pleased.”

Arthur gives her a blank look. “What?”

She points at the new “Fuck Music” category label that Arthur has added to Mithian’s music library. “I’ll join you in your protest. Let’s all join you in your protest. Fuck music, right? Fuck it. Fuck music! Fuck the music industry, fuck the record labels, fuck the lot of them. Fuck music!”  

“Oh. Yeah, everyone,” says Arthur, puzzled wrinkles clearing from his face. “Fuck music!” He takes a swig of wine and exchanges a secret grin with Merlin, whose eyes are dancing with mirth.

“Yeah,” says Merlin, smiling so hard his eyes disappear altogether. “That’s right. Fuck music.” 


	9. The One Where Merlin Doesn't Go to Staines and Arthur Doesn't Go Bird Watching

Merlin hums as he swaps over the CD. There’s no way he’s listening to Bach all the way to the Cotswolds. When Arthur gets into the car, Merlin’s staring innocently out of the window.

“I’m looking forward to getting away,” Arthur says. Shifting his ancient Volvo into first gear, he undertakes a complicated manoeuvre to try to get it to start. Merlin thinks it looks vaguely obscene, the way Arthur uses his hips and thighs to pump the accelerator and clutch pedals in arcane combinations while he pats the dashboard and makes coaxing noises. He’s getting a little bit aroused. “Come on Killy,” Arthur coaxes in a high-pitched voice. “Start for Arthur, come on boy.” The delighted smile on his face when the bloody vehicle finally judders into life, coughing like a geriatric 90-a-day smoker, is akin to an expression Merlin’s only used to seeing in the bedroom.

“I sometimes think you fancy your car more than me,” says Merlin. He’s only half joking.

“I do,” says Arthur, voice serious. Merlin thinks he’s not joking at all. Until Arthur punches him on the leg with a sudden smile on his face. “Idiot. You look like the sun just went out.”

“Yes, well.” Merlin looks out of the window, and wonders where the tears pricking his eyes came from, how Arthur suddenly got this strange ability to hurt him with a thoughtless remark. He’s humiliated when Arthur, noticing something’s wrong, starts teasing him about being a girl.

“I’m not a girl, Arthur. I’d have thought you’d have noticed that by now,” he snaps. Arthur doesn’t reply, he’s too busy reacting to traffic. They’re pulling onto the South Circular now, stuck in the usual Friday night exodus out of London. It’s been a long week at work, and Merlin’s mood, earlier euphoric at the prospect of lots of uninhibited sex with Arthur in Oxfordshire, has suddenly plummeted.

Sheets of rain sleet onto the windscreen, and Killy the Volvo’s cranky windscreen wipers struggle to keep up. The noise they make while they’re trying ineffectually to sweep the water away is like someone saying “Why? Why? Why? Why?”

To cover the sudden awkward silence Merlin presses the button on Killy’s 20-th century tape player. Strains of Radiohead’s “OK Computer” fill the air, swiftly followed by curses from Arthur.

“Bloody hell, what’s this depressing crap? Can’t you find something decent to play?”

Merlin sighs and rummages in the glove compartment, but they can’t agree on any music, not today, so they put Radio One on instead, and listen to the Golden Hour.

“It’s 2005” says Merlin. “I remember singing along to Gnarls Barkley with Cedric while we were doing our accountancy exams.”

“Don’t be ridiculous” says Arthur. “It’s definitely 2006. Gnarls Barkley was 2006. I was going out with Myror. He had a thing about Cee Lo Green.”

“I’m not ridiculous,” says Merlin. He knows the others all think he’s a bit of a joke, and he plays up to it, but he’s becoming aware that his feelings for Arthur are running a lot more deeply than he’d originally planned, and it’s beginning to upset him that Arthur still treats him a bit like that too.

“That’s what you got from that?” Arthur keeps his eyes on the road. “There’s no need to be so sensitive, Merlin. You’re wrong, that’s all.”

Merlin’s got his face pressed to the window, can’t see the expression in Arthur’s face while Arthur concentrates on the road. “Why the hell are you getting at me? What is it, national Criticise Merlin day or something?”

“You’re a fine one to talk, I’m making conversation that’s all, whereas you seem to be twisting everything I say into some kind of personal dig, which… that’s not how it’s meant, OK?” Arthur puts his hand to his forehead and Merlin feels a twinge of guilt.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just… well… I don’t know. Sorry. I didn’t mean to… anyway. Let’s just chill..”

And this is really crap, because it’s the first opportunity they’ve had to get away together without any suspicious eyes watching their every move, waiting to report back to Morgana, and they’re fighting already.

They’re pulling onto the A4 near Chiswick when Arthur changes the subject. “I told Morgana I was going bird watching, in Buckinghamshire,” he says. “Off to see the red kites in Stokenchurch. I had to rack my brains to find something so unutterably nerdy that she wouldn’t have any interest in it. How did I do?”

Merlin laughs, knowing Arthur’s trying to lighten the mood, and it warms his heart that Arthur’s trying to do that. Some of his anxiety and insecurity melts away with the knowledge that Arthur wants him to cheer up.

“That was pants, Arthur,” he says. “She’s a palaeontologist, remember? She’ll be asking you all about their taxonomy, breeding habits – you’ve opened a can of worms there mate!”

“Maybe the kites’ll eat the worms?” jokes Arthur. It’s a lame joke, but they’re both laughing and he touches Arthur’s hand on the gear stick to let him know that he’s forgotten his earlier jumpiness. Arthur smiles and puts the handbrake on while they wait for the queue to move. He squeezes Merlin’s hand for a moment.

“What did you tell Gwaine?”

“I said I had an accountants’ reunion,” he says now, smiling back and meeting Arthur’s eyes. They look concerned, warm. His spirits lift a little more. “In Staines. How did I do?”

“Genius. The most boring profession in the most unutterably dull place in south-east England. Who would live in a place like Staines? Even its name  sounds like something that you need to clean off your pants.”

“It could be worse. Could be Slough.”

They’ve reached an uneasy truce, but Merlin still can’t dislodge the lump in his throat. It got a little bigger with Arthur’s dismissal of his profession. Was that what Arthur thought of him? Boring? Arthur doesn’t think Merlin’s good enough for him. Even Merlin doesn’t think he’s good enough for him. Being a gentleman, Arthur’s probably taking him to the Cotswolds to let him down gently. Merlin’s hands grip his thighs, his lips turn down again and he broods, staring out of the window, all the way up the M40.

White cliffs loom alongside the motorway, light grey in the relentless rain, when they drive through Stokenchurch. “There’s one,” says Arthur, pointing, and not commenting on Merlin’s morose silence.

“What?”

“Red kite. Look. And – wow, there are loads. I can see about ten.”

“Great!” Black shapes loom and whirl about high above the wet, grey-green hills.

“Merlin?”

“What?”

“Why are you only communicating in monosyllables?”

Merlin sighs. Poor Arthur, he deserves a lovely weekend in Oxfordshire, and here he is stuck on the M40 in the rain, with only a boring, monosyllabic accountant for company.

“Sorry,” he says, swallowing, head against the glass.

Arthur takes his hand off the steering wheel, grasps Merlin’s knee with it. “Hey,” he says in a soft voice. “You’re upset about something, I can tell. Look, I don’t know what’s the matter, but let’s just have a nice weekend, OK? Let me cheer you up. You’ve been working too hard.” He rubs Merlin’s thigh gently through his jeans. The warmth of Arthur’s hand and the sweetness of Arthur’s words make him want to cry.

“Maybe you’re right,” he whispers. “Maybe I am a girl after all.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rise up in question, although Arthur’s still watching the road.

“I sincerely hope not,” says Arthur eventually, his hand working its way a little bit further up away from Merlin’s knee. “What I’ve got planned this weekend will be significantly more challenging if you don’t have a dick.”

Smiling ruefully, Merlin bats his hand away. “Concentrate on your driving, you sex-obsessed prat.”

And there, on the motorway, staring out of the window at the circling birds, Merlin finally realises what’s been bothering him.

He’s fallen in love. He’s in love with Arthur. But Arthur doesn’t feel the same way, Arthur doesn’t want a committed relationship, so he must keep this casual, keep this lighthearted, or he’ll lose him forever. And he couldn’t bear that. 


	10. The One Where They See Lord Sugar.

The boutique hotel they’ve booked in the Cotswolds has a faintly dilapidated air, and their room is unacceptable.

“I can’t sleep in there,” Arthur explains to the balding, corpulent, scowling man at the reception desk. “There’s a spider in the sink. And the towels were unfolded. ”

The owner sighs, mournfully, as if paying customers are all such a trial, and Arthur instantly wants to leave.

“Do you have any other rooms?” Arthur carries on. “Hygienic ones, for example?” He can’t help the element of sarcasm that creeps into his voice. He looks over to Merlin for support, but the idiot is staring into space, like he’s had some sort of religious conversion, he’s been a bit off all evening to be honest. Arthur swallows a pang of concern, because there’s a queue forming behind him.

The man behind the desk is painfully slow. A clammy-looking tongue protrudes from his tongue when he licks an index finger to turn the page and scan the list of rooms. Shuddering, lips curling down with disgust, Arthur makes an abrupt decision.

“Never mind,” he says. “We’re leaving. Come on, Merlin.”

Merlin just stands there, the great lump. “What? We just got here!”

“We’re leaving. Now,” Arthur hisses out of the corner of his mouth. Furious, he grabs both bags and stalks out of the door, Merlin protesting feebly in his wake. Arthur opens Kilgarrah’s boot with an abrupt clunk, throws the bags in, and slams it shut, making Merlin jump. “Thanks for your support, _Mer_ lin,” says Arthur, seething. The least Merlin could have done was to nod, or add some encouraging words when Arthur confronted the receptionist, but no, he had to just stand there, passively waiting for Arthur to deal with it.

But Merlin’s indignant now, now it’s too late to count. “Well excuse me for not wading in to insult our admittedly vile host, but you seemed to be doing just fine on your own,” says Merlin, pink spots appearing on his cheeks.

“Fine,” says Arthur, chucking his iPhone at Merlin. “Make yourself useful for a change, and find us another hotel.”

Merlin’s standing there with his mouth wide open. “I don’t believe you,” he says. “I don’t see how any of this is my fault.”

“Oh, I see, it’s all my fault then. I book a weekend away, drive you up here, and when I’ve got the teeniest tiniest issue, it’s all my fault. Right. I understand. You just think I’m a bloody pain in the arse, don’t you Merlin?” Because that’s all the others ever think of him. Just like his father, everyone thinks he’s difficult, fussy, a pain, ultimately useless. Because that’s what he is. Arthur swallows.

Merlin’s frowning, shaking his head. “No, that’s not true Arthur, I…no, that’s not what I think of you at all.” Merlin strides up to him, puts a gentle hand in his hair and plants a gentle kiss on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I seem to be saying that a lot, this weekend, don’t I. I’m an idiot, because, the truth is I… ” Merlin swallows. “I’ve fallen… I’ve fallen…” Swallowing, he pauses, and looks away. “I’ve fallen… into a big trap,” he says, looking back at him and nodding. “A big trap of… of assuming that you know I like you. A lot. And I do. l…like you a lot, Arthur. I think the world of you. You’re a wonderful friend, and a fantastic chef, and I’ve never felt a connection like this to someone before. It scares me a little, but I don’t want it to stop, because I’ve never had sex like this, not with anyone.”

He’s moved closer during this speech, and his mouth is touching Arthur’s neck, wet from the rain. Skinny arms wrap themselves round Arthur’s waist and a pair of soft lips ghost across his throat. Arthur closes his eyes.

“C’mon,” says Merlin quietly, wrapping Arthur’s Arsenal scarf round his neck with a proprietorial air. “Let’s go and find somewhere to stay.”

They grin at each other, and somehow it all feels all right again.

~#~

It’s quite hard finding last-minute gay-friendly accommodation in rural Oxfordshire on a summer’s weekend, even if it is raining. Eventually, they decide to blow the budget and end up in a 5-star swanky hotel in Burford. And when they sample the delights of the hot-tub, the spa, the soft bed, each others’ mouths (to take the edge off), champagne and room service, Merlin has to admit that it’s already been worth the terrifying price tag.

The urgency is gone now, now that he’s gently rocking into Arthur, whispering into his ear, savouring the tiny grunts that Arthur makes on each thrust. “So hot for me, Arthur,” he murmurs. “So hot, so tight.” Arthur’s limbs are splayed across the bed, he’s face down with a pillow tucked under his hips, one of Merlin’s hands supporting him as he rocks. Beads of sweat coat his forehead. Merlin wants to wipe them away, and he is shocked at the surge of possessiveness that fills him while he watches the expressions on Arthur’s face as he nears his climax.

“That’s it, love,” Merlin whispers, when he sees Arthur’s brows draw together, knows he’s teetering on the brink.

“Merlin, you feel so good, I can’t…” Arthur’s legs move even further apart, knees drawing up, and Merlin pushes deeper inside, as deep as he can until he is lost and his breath stutters. He reaches round, his hand holding Arthur, encircling him with his fist, gently tugging. When Arthur flexes his hips Merlin feels a surge of feeling deep in his gut, converging on his tightly clenching buttocks, his tensing thighs, and he cries out, juddering, treasuring Arthur’s hoarse, choking cries.

They lie in each others’ arms in the aftermath, sweat pooling on the skin where they touch, and it’s different from before, somehow, more intimate, as if a line has been crossed. A line between fucking and something more important. 

~#~

Arthur approves of this establishment. The breakfast cutlery are lined up beautifully, as if with a ruler. The cruet is polished until it shines. The napkins and tablecloths are crisply laundered, his poached eggs are beautifully cooked, and his tea is served in a pot, with a tea strainer. All is as it should be.

Merlin scoffs his scrambled eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans and toast with his usual gusto, a napkin tucked into his collar, swilling it down with coffee strong enough to stand his spoon up in. Arthur watches fondly as Merlin spears a recalcitrant mushroom, dipping it into a large pool of extra strong yellow English mustard.

“You eat like a pig, Merlin,” he says, smirking. “You’re drooling. You have ketchup on your chin, and there’s a dribble of baked bean juice on your tee-shirt.”

“This is bloody fantastic,” says Merlin in response. “Don’t be such an old woman.”

Arthur looks up and his heart drops to his boots, and then springs back up again, thudding with excitement. “Merlin,” he hisses.

“There’s no need to get upset,” says Merlin. “You’re a perfectly lovely old woman.”

“Shh! No, not that, you total buffoon. Behind you! It’s Alan Sugar, I swear.” Merlin’s mouth drops open. It’s not a pleasant sight, filled as it is with bits of baked bean and toast. “Shut your mouth, Merlin, you peasant.”

“B…b…” Merlin starts to turn his head.

“Don’t turn round!” says Arthur, lifting a cautionary finger. “He might see!”

“Of course I’m bloody going to turn round!” Merlin’s addicted to The Apprentice. “Anyway, put your finger down. You look like you’re about to say ‘you’re fired’. I bet he gets that all the time.”

Arthur hastily drops his finger while Merlin turns to gawk. Being a lovable buffoon, he manages to be rewarded by smile of acknowledgment from Lord Sugar, whereas Arthur gets a scowl and 2 fingers.

“What?” says Arthur, stricken. “What was that all about.” He wouldn’t admit it in public, but he has the teensiest crush on Lord Sugar, and is despondent at this dismissal.

Merlin smirks and nods at Arthur’s Arsenal scarf.

Oh.

“Bloody Spurs supporters,” mutters Arthur to himself. “Rude sod.” He pouts at his breakfast and takes a large bite of toast and marmalate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for non-Brits: Lord Alan Sugar hosts the UK version of "The Apprentice". In the loosely related Friends episode, Monica and Chandler see Donald Trump while they are on a weekend away that ends up with them bickering the whole time. 
> 
> Alan Sugar is a big-time Tottenham Hotspur (Spurs) supporter--in fact, he was the chairman of the club for 9 years--while Bradley James supports their deadly rivals Arsenal. 
> 
> So I'm just messing with that.


	11. The One Where Gwaine Is Starving and Arthur Loses A Scarf

Gwaine’s starving. He looks forlornly at his empty wallet, the empty fridge, and the empty pizza box from last night.

Merlin stomps into the flat, slamming the door. Gwaine looks up at him, a starving man hoping for a chance at dinner. But the expression on Merlin’s face dashes his hopes.

“Uh oh. What happened?” It beats him how a bunch of accountants can get Merlin so worked up. In Staines of all places. “Told you it was a mistake going outside the M25”. Gwaine shudders.

“It was awful, despite seeing Lord Sugar. And I don’t want to talk about it.” Merlin storms through the flat, face like thunder, scattering shoes, mobile phone, and overcoat as he goes, walks into his room. The door bangs so violently that a mug falls off the table. “I’m not here,” Merlin shouts through it, Gwaine winces at the sound of Radiohead blaring out. Merlin’s hair reappears through the door. “If Arth… anyone calls, I’m not here.” His head withdraws again, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

Oh dear. Maybe the moose has thrown a strop.

He’s just stooping to get some cash out of Merlin’s wallet when Merlin’s phone rings. Oh well, a friend in need, and all that. He picks up.

“Good afternoon, Merlin Emrys here,” Gwaine says, in his best “I’m an accountant, you can trust me,” tones. Merlin’s damn lucky to have an actor as a flat mate. He gives his hair a happy twirl, and imagines himself in a suit.

“Ah, good evening, Mr Emrys. So glad we caught you. It’s the Imperial Estate Hotel, Burford here. Just to let you know that you left your Arsenal scarf behind this morning. It is in the post.”

“Erm. Thanks?” says Gwaine. He didn’t know Merlin had an Arsenal scarf. “That’s very kind of you.” And Burford? That’s nowhere near Staines. Maybe Merlin was lying about the accountants. Maybe he’d gone off for a dirty weekend with the moose. A dirty weekend gone wrong might explain Merlin’s bad mood.

He shouts through Merlin’s bedroom door. “Merlin? I’m hungry. Going to the Battersea Buttery. I owe you a tenner, mate. Want me to bring you anything? Oh and your hotel called? They’re sending your Arsenal scarf. See ya.”

He strides through the door of Battersea’s favourite café, hanging his raincoat on the coat rack.

Arthur, Morgana and Gwen are on the sofa, and Mithian’s bustling about pretending to serve coffee.

“What’s up, folks?” says Gwaine, leaping over the back of the sofa and depositing his arse next to Arthur’s. “Good weekend, Princess?”

Arthur looks up, mouth all pouty. “The best thing that happened this weekend was that Lord Sugar did a V-sign at me.”

“Bad news, mate,” Gwaine sympathises.

The door goes then, and Merlin walks in. Arthur scowls and looks at his phone. Merlin’s expression is identical. He orders a sandwich from Mithian and sits on the chair next to Gwen.

Gwaine frowns, a thought occurring to him. “Hey, that’s funny, Merlin saw Lord Sugar this weekend too, didn’t you Merlin?”

“Me? No,”

“But you said…”

“You must have imagined it,” says Merlin. He’s looking daggers at Arthur, who’s returning the favour.

There’s an awkward silence. Gwen tries to fill it.

“So, Merlin, how were your accountants?”

“Rude. Haughty. Annoying,” says Merlin, glaring at Arthur for some reason. “You know what the worst thing was about my weekend? Being ordered about by entitled, bossy divas.”

“That’s funny,” says Arthur, almost shouting. “I thought all accountants were thoughtless, untidy, disorganised and disordered. Shows what I know. The worst thing about my weekend? Thanks to _untidy people_ , I can’t find my Arsenal scarf. I can’t find it anywhere…”

And that’s it. That’s when it all finally drops into place.

Gwaine is thunderstruck. His gob, it is smacked. His flabber, gasting all over the place. His mouth drops open wide and he points a trembly finger at Arthur.

“It’s you!” he says, in a stage whisper. “It’s Arthur! You’re the M—” but he can’t finish the word moose, because Merlin’s hand is clamped over his mouth, and he’s making muffled “moose” noises whilst being ushered out of the cafe under the curious gaze of the three girls.

“Gwaine, mate” Merlin’s saying, loudly to disguise his muffled “moose” sounds. “It’s been a long weekend for you, without food. I think you need some beer. Come and have some beer and a pub meal with me. I’m starving. Come on! Arthur – you’d better come too. I think Gwaine knows where your Arsenal scarf is.”

Arthur’s staring at him dumbly.

“I said, _I think Gwaine knows where your Arsenal scarf is_ , you pillock,” Merlin shouts.

Arthur’s face clears. “Oh. Yeah. Well, I’d better come too then. See you girls.”

Damn right Gwaine knows where it is.

It’s on its way back from a failed dirty weekend in Burford.

Gwaine steels himself for an uncomfortable evening in the pub. Merlin had better have plenty of cash in his wallet, he thinks. It’s going to take an awful lot of beers to persuade Gwaine to keep this a secret. 


	12. The One Where Merlin's Moose gets Loose

Merlin’s well into his third half pint by the time they’ve finally got Gwaine to agree to keep this whole thing quiet, and his heart’s not into the squabbling any more. He feels a bit sick, and teary to be honest. He just wants everything to be back as it was before they’d had that monumental fight about nothing, and driven home in silence.

“Hey, hey,” says Gwaine. “I get it, right, you two are good for each other, and I won’t tell the others, on one condition. You’ve got to stop this moody pouting. It’s driving me mental. I’m off to the loo, and I just bloody well want you to kiss and make up by the time I’m back, OK?”

Merlin can’t help smiling as Gwaine stomps off, and by the look of Arthur’s glazed expression he can’t either. Merlin nudges him.

“Hey,” he says.

Arthur nudges him back. “Hey.” His lips are curving up a bit. Merlin takes that as an invitation.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You know, about all the mess, and the saga of the scarf. It’s just that… I’m feeling a bit unsure about what you feel for me, you know? Because I think… I think I’ve fallen…” he swallows, remembering how he failed to express himself before, and wills himself to continue. He looks away. “I think I’ve fallen in love. With you. I can’t help myself. I don’t think… I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before. About anyone. And it scares me a little.” He looks back. Arthur’s eyes are black in the dim pub light. Well, he has started now, he might as well let it all out. “And… and when I’m feeling insecure, I can’t think of anything else, I just get really flustered, and all my organisational skills go to pot, so I end up losing things, and scattering my possessions, and I don’t know…”

“Merlin?”

“What?”

“Shut up.” Arthur leans across and kisses him softly on the mouth. Merlin moans and melts a bit, into the kiss, because it tastes sweet, and beery, and moist, and it’s all he’s been craving all day, all weekend, but he had the jitters, and he just didn’t have the words to ask for it.

Arthur stops the kiss for a moment, with a finger to Merlin’s chin. His other hand is drawing reassuring circles on the skin of Merlin’s wrist.

“I’m sorry,” says Arthur. “I’m sorry I was grouchy about the scarf and the mess. Merlin, I’m falling in love with you as well. I’ve been falling and falling and falling, ever since Copenhagen, since before then even, and I’ve fallen further than I expected. I am not used to such feelings. They scare me, I think. And I go into manic tidying phase, and I get more and more stressy and uptight, when I’m stressed out, it’s my coping mechanism. It’s kind of the opposite of you, I suppose.”

Merlin chuckles into Arthur’s mouth. “We’d better not stress each other out then,” he says. “it’s bound to end in tears.” And then he can’t speak any more because his mouth is busy.

~#~

When Gwaine returns from the loo he finds their chairs have been vacated. There’s a full pint of beer at the table, and a heavily laden Cheddar Ploughmans. Curious, he extracts a note from under the plate.

_We kissed and made up. Don’t hurry back. M & A x_

“Finally,” he thinks, grinning and tucking ravenously into his dinner.

~#~

It’s all they can do to wait til they get into the flat before getting their hands on each other. Merlin feels a bit giddy with the urgency of it. It’s like Copenhagen all over again – only now they have his flat to themselves, and don’t have to worry about getting interrupted.

He slams the door closed behind Arthur, and presses him into it, hands frantically burrowing into clothes, undoing coat buttons, yanking Arthur’s shirt up to reach skin. He doesn’t care about the tiny gasp he makes when finally he makes contact with Arthur’s warm waist. He finds Athur’s belt, loosens it, and buries his face in Arthur’s clothes, sinking to his knees, hand cupped round a firm buttock.

“Let me suck you off,” he says, gazing up at Arthur, face serious.

“God, Merlin, please, look at you, ah, you don’t know how much I… please, yes, God,” says Arthur, his hands slipping through Merlin’s hair, pulling Merlin in to his crotch so that he can smell warm musk through Arthur’s clothes. Merlin moans, tugging Arthur’s trousers down and mouthing his tented boxer shorts. Arthur’s hard, so hard, just for him. “You don’t know how you make me feel, Merlin, that’s just… ah, yes, oh, oh, ohhh!” This last, drawn out, groan is pulled from Arthur’s throat when Merlin finally releases his warm, proud cock and without preamble sheaths it in his mouth, humming happily.

When Arthur rocks his hips gently Merlin can feel the muscles in his taut arse clench and relax. Merlin’s mouth is full, and it’s just a bit too much, and perfect. He slips wet fingers between Arthur’s thighs, massaging his balls where they lie nested in wiry golden curls. Arthur’s head smacks against the door with a thump and he whimpers.

“Merlin,” he says  in a breathy whisper, “Merlin, love, I can’t, I’m going to… Merlin!”

Arthur’s hands tighten in Merlin’s hair, and he’s silent as he fills Merlin’s mouth with heat and salt. All Merlin can hear is the sound of his own heart, pounding with the strength of his feelings. Arthur sinks to the floor, pulling Merlin into his embrace, one leg on either side, one wobbly hand weakly ghosting down towards Merlin’s crotch.

“I’ll just… in a minute…”

“No need,” says Merlin, smiling selfconsciously. He’s going to have to do some laundry tonight.

~#~

The best thing about not having to sneak around behind Gwaine’s back any more is that Arthur can stay overnight. Not only does this mean they can have more sex than he had thought possible, but he can wake up with a hot body lined up against his back, little puffs of breath gusting on his neck. He can wake up entangled in warm, strong limbs, clasp onto them, and nuzzle blissfully at a golden-haired, freckly forearm.

Plus, his bedroom is suddenly immaculately tidy.

So what with one thing and another he can be forgiven for letting his guard slip.

Gwaine’s ‘between jobs’, which means that he’s up at about 2pm, so when Merlin gets up for work on Monday morning at 6.45am the place is very quiet. Arthur pads into the shower after him, and Merlin sits at the breakfast bar in just a towel, catching up on emails while he scoffs his muesli and slurps a hot cup of Typhoo tea. When the doorbell goes he just doesn’t think before getting up to answer it, and is only a little selfconscious when he lets Gwen in.

“Hi Merlin,” she says, flashing him a warm, dimply grin. “You’re looking well!” She looks pointedly at his neck, and he blushes, hand rising to touch it, wondering if there’s a hickey there. “Looks like the moose has grown some teeth!”

“Erm! Gwen!” he says, and to cover his confusion, “You’re up early.”

“Yes,” says Gwen. “Mithian and I were wondering if you knew where Arthur has got to? It’s just that no-one’s seen him since he went off with you and Gwaine. We were wondering if there was anything wrong.”

“Erm!” says Merlin again. “I…”

Arthur chooses that moment to come out of the shower, one towel round his waist, rubbing his wet hair with another. Merlin is dismayed to see that a prominent hickey also adorns Arthur’s neck. Oops.

“Well, I suppose that answers that question, then,” she says, looking thoughtful.

Merlin swallows. “Er – Gwen, let me explain…”

She looks at him enquiringly.

“It’s all right,” says Arthur, coming to his rescue. “I can explain. I felt unwell last night. Merlin escorted me back from the pub, and, not wanting to wake you, I slept on the sofa.”

Merlin beams at him. Arthur really is a genius. “Yeah, that’s right,” he says. “Poor Arthur. Are you feeling better now?”

“Much. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep and a shower can do.”

But Gwen is rolling her eyes and it is clear their subterfuge is failing. On a scale of nought to dismal they are achieving high scores.

“It’s all right,” she says. “I can see the evidence. It’s written all over Arthur’s face. And neck.”

“Really?” says Arthur, clutching at his neck. Merlin’s heart sinks. How are they going to persuade Gwen to keep this from Morgana?

“Yeah! Clearly the moose has got his fangs into Arthur as well. I wonder if we should warn Gwaine? There’s a bloodsucking moose on the loose. Moose on the loose? I like that! Maybe I should write a song about it!”

Merlin gazes at her, mouth open. Sometimes Gwen astonishes him with her ability to put two and two together and get a banana.

He and Arthur exchange a smile. Then he looks up at the clock on the fridge. It says 8.45.

“Shit!” says Merlin. “I’ve got to go. It’s 7.22!”

Arthur frowns at the clock. “Really?”

“Yes. Please ignore the clock. I have to go to extraordinary lengths to make sure that Gwaine gets to auditions on time.”

Arthur and Gwen are still sitting drinking tea when Merlin, dressed in his usual accountant’s uniform, finally emerges two minutes later from his room. He bends to give Arthur a tender kiss on the lips before he goes, and Arthur spends a second fussing with his hair.

“Bye, see you later!” Merlin says.

And then sees Gwen staring at him.

Damn.

“So,” she says, voice coy. “Not a moose then.”

Arthur sighs. “No,” he says. “Not a moose.”

Merlin swallows. “Bye!” he says, retreating through the door. He can see Arthur mouthing “coward” at him as he goes.  


	13. The One Where Arthur Hangs Up His Roller-Skates For Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur loses his job. Lucky that he's got such an awesome boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: if you're worried about possible squicks, see the Chapter end notes for slightly spoiler-ish (very) mild warning, and for a hint about an additional (non-Merlin/Arthur) relationship.
> 
> Other notes: Sorry about the wait since the last update, dear reader. Don't worry, I won't forget this story, because it's a welcome escape from all that pesky RL.

_There’s only one thing worse than being busy at work, and that’s not being busy at work,_ thinks Arthur morosely, as he swirls the dishcloth round the empty table for the umpteenth time, trying to fill his mind with happy thoughts about sex with Merlin, to distract himself from the hideous, cheerful music that blares through the PA, a bleak parody of the once-jolly atmosphere of the diner. His colleague, Sefa, practices her skating manoeuvres with a desultory air.

It’s no great surprise when, at the end of the shift, their lecherous manager, Geoffrey, pausing only to give Arthur’s bottom a perfunctory, half-hearted pinch, passes over their wages for the shift and tells them not to bother coming in again, the business is closing down. Since the horse-meat debacle, Battersea folk have stopped eating old-fashioned junk food.

“ _Game For A Falafel_ , next door, is doing a roaring trade.” Geoffrey says, licking his lips, “Maybe you can get a job there. You’re a terrible waitress, but old Olaf might appreciate your other… assets… you never know?” Arthur feels his mouth twist into a disgusted sneer as he turns away.

Rather than go home, he goes straight to Merlin’s door, feeling so dejected that he can’t be bothered changing. Merlin takes one look at him and, tugging him into the flat, pulls him into a big, spindly-armed, hug, taking the greatest of care not to burst the balloons that still grace Arthur’s chest.

“Aww, Arthur, you look like an injured teddy bear when you pout like that. Could your lips _be_ any more kissable?” he says, following up on his words with a sweet, tender swipe at Arthur’s mouth. “C’mon. You need cheering up. Let’s eat noodles, raid my Cadburys Creme Egg stash, and watch a couple of episodes of ‘Fresh Meat’.”  Arthur’s boyfriend is pretty amazing, all told, because he’s never once complained about Arthur’s unfathomable crush on Jack Whitehall.

“M’ not eating anything prepared in this kitchen,” Arthur mumbles into Merlin’s bobbly old “Pringle” sweater while Merlin’s fingers draw comforting swirls on his shoulders.

Merlin chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he says, his mouth warm on Arthur’s forehead, “as usual Gwaine’s eaten everything edible, we’ll have to have a take-away. But the Creme Eggs are safely hidden in my room.”

Later, after gorging on noodles, when they settle on the sofa, arms and legs entwined, Merlin bites the head off a Cadburys Creme Egg and licks the filling from the middle. Arthur, mesmerised, watches his tongue. It’s a very skilful tongue, a tongue made for athletic and gymnastic endeavours, a tongue of lithe deviousness and cheeky unpredictability. It tapers to a point then nuzzles enquiringly at the yellow-and-white gooey egg-filling. Then it curves as it flicks out of the egg, pulling its thick covering of goo back between pink, full lips. A faint approving “mmm” rumbles deep in Merlin’s chest.

Arthur swallows in sympathy and unwraps his own egg, leaving a small covering of foil at the pointy end, before wedging the blunt end into his mouth and sucking it in and out, experimentally, so that the chocolate melts on his mouth. He can feel Merlin’s rapt gaze on him as he twirls the egg, slathering thick, brown chocolatey layers across his lips and tongue.

“Arthur,” says Merlin, in a hoarse voice, “Your lips are dirty. You hate being dirty.”

“Clean them for me,” Arthur pleads.

Merlin darts forward and encloses Arthurs lips in his mouth, using the full range of his tongue's considerable talents, swirling and swooping around Arthur’s, tasting the chocolate. He is still coated with Creme-Egg-goo, so sweet it makes Arthur’s eyes cross. Arthur makes a helpless, lost sound, and Merlin’s answering purr is nearly a growl as he turns, and sits facing Arthur, astride him, groin grinding into his.

Arthur unwraps the final section of the Creme Egg and pops the whole thing into Merlin’s mouth. Then he dives in after it. They pass it back and forth from mouth to mouth, saliva and chocolate and sweet, gooey filling dribbling and pooling on their chins, all the while murmuring and grinding and breathing in great gasps between messy, sloppy kisses.

Feeling better already, he pushes Merlin away for a second and, panting a little with the exertion, shucks off his waitress outfit, balloons and all, so that he’s sitting on Merlin’s sofa clad in only a pair of boxers. He pulls Merlin down onto him for another frantic kiss, enquiring hand insinuating itself under the waistband of Merlin’s trousers, then flips Merlin onto the sofa and kisses him greedily until he laughs and turns his head away.

“Stop! Stop! Arthur, I can’t breathe!”

“Don’t care,” says Arthur diving back in, nuzzling Merlin’s neck. “You taste divine.” He blows on Merlin’s ears until he’s rewarded with a tremor and another chuckle.

“Wait! Wait! Gwaine’ll be home soon, can we take this to my room?” Because Arthur’s getting more insistent now, he’s grinding into Merlin, seeking friction, until Merlin’s hand whispers under his boxers, and he curls his hips, pushes up into Merlin’s fist, making tiny, frantic grunting noises.

“Merlin please,” Arthur says. “I’ve got to – please!”

“Hey,” Merlin says in a soothing voice, gripping Arthur’s urgent cock, the other hand caressing his hair softly. “It’s all right, it’s only me, come for me, love, I’ve got you.” The tender note in his voice makes Arthur’s breath hitch and he thrusts into Merlin’s warm fist, too dry, but with just the right amount of pressure. His buttocks tense and he feels the orgasm build in his muscles, his balls tightening, and he cries out, voice stuttering as he jerks forward. He almost sobs as he comes, coating his waitress uniform, which Merlin has thoughtfully placed on his tummy, in thick, white spurts.

“Hey,” Merlin says again, stroking his head through the aftershocks, “Whoa! Easy there, tiger! What brought that on?”

Arthur can’t help noticing that Merlin’s still rock hard under his part-open jeans, and feels a prickle of shame at the way he just pounced on his boyfriend, the way he just used him. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, wiping the remnants of his come up with the abused waitress costume, "I just, I just..." and his eyes are a bit moist. 

"Hey, hey, hey," says Merlin again, pressing at his cheek with a gentle thumb, kissing his eye. "What's this all about?" 

“Jus’ give me a moment," says Arthur, cupping Merlin through his pants. "Then when you’ve fucked me through your mattress we can talk.”

They stumble into Merlin’s room and shut the door.

~#~

Once Arthur’s loose and pliant, washed and warm, Merlin thinks it might be safe to broach the subject.

“Well?” he says, nuzzling at Arthur’s hair, wet from the shower, clean and soapy with a hint of conditioner. “You going to tell me about it or what?”

Arthur sighs. “I lost my job,” he says. “To be honest, it’s a relief, because Geoffrey never let me in the kitchen anyway. But I’m not sure how I’ll pay the rent.”

“So what will you do now?”

“I don’t know,” says Arthur, eyebrows knitting together. Merlin feels his shoulders tensing under his fingers, and hastily moves in to knead the knots with his fingertips. "Or at least... I know what I want to do, but I don't know how to get there." 

“Don’t worry,” says Merlin, pressing his lips to those broad, freckled, golden shoulders. “You’re the most talented chef in Battersea, you should be running a Michelin starred restaurant. You were always wasted on that lecherous old bugger, and his vile diner.”

“But the fact remains that I’m skint, and out of a job,” says Arthur, turning onto his back, lines of frustration developing on his forehead.

But Merlin has a cunning plan, and he smirks at Arthur. “You’re not ‘out of a job’, Arthur,” he says, in his smuggest voice, “you’re ‘available for new opportunities’. And that means I can recommend you to one of my clients, who was explaining only last week that he needs new trainees, and isn’t impressed with the quality of any of the applicants.”

Arthur’s staring at him now. “You didn’t tell me about this?”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up – but the fact is that I’m currently auditing Michael de la Roux, and he’s hiring.”

If wild-eyed anticipation was the only criterion for hiring, Arthur would be in the kitchen of The Connchester Hotel, prepping vegetables right there on the spot. “Michael de la Roux?” His mouth gapes, slack lipped.

 “Bloody hell, Arthur, you’ve got genuine stars in your eyes!” Merlin is a tiny bit jealous that it’s not him that put that expression there.

“Wait! Do you mean THE Michael de la Roux? Scion of the venerable de-la-Roux sisters? Proprietor of “The Connchester Hotel” on Park Lane?

“Yup. Seems he’s opening a new restaurant down the road, in Putney, and he’s looking for trainees.”

“Woo hoo!” Arthur springs out of bed, and actually jumps up and down in excitement, which Merlin is pretty damn sure is the cutest reaction he’s ever seen to the news that a new bistro is opening just off the Upper Richmond Road.

“Michael de la Roux,” Arthur sings, crooning into an imaginary microphone, gyrating his hips so that his flaccid penis flaps comically, “I’m coming to work for yooooo! Scoobydoobydoooo!” He fist-pumps and does a little twirl.

If it was actually possible for someone to be beside themselves with excitement, Merlin is pretty certain that there would now be two Arthurs pirouetting round his room, making up ridiculous lyrics to the theme tunes from Childrens’ TV programs, adjusting the angles of Merlin's already perfectly aligned picture frames, and casually re-organising the toiletries on his dresser in order of size. But no, there’s just the one, one very cute and excited one, with a finely shaped rear end, and that’s all the Arthur he thinks he’ll ever need.

He laughs, delighted at Arthur’s reaction, and pats his bedcovers in invitation. “Come back to bed, you’re like a toddler with tickets to ride Thomas the Tank Engine!”

Beaming, Arthur leaps back into the bed, landing on top of Merlin with a happy cry, so that all his breath is pushed out of him in a big whoosh, and enfolding him in a bear-like hug, so their shared laughter makes Merlin’s ribs rumble. Because when Arthur feels joyful, he shares his emotions generously, and they overwhelm Merlin with their warmth and inclusiveness until he feels like he’s going to explode with affection. Merlin thinks he’d quite like to dedicate his life to making Arthur giddy with glee like this.

“You’re brilliant,” says Arthur, face lit up, eyes sparkling. They’re a bit like the Thames on a sunny day, thinks Merlin, fondly, although, rather than the river's usual sludge-brown colour, Arthur’s eyes are a shade of blue that comes close to that of a Chelsea shirt, but of course, being an Arsenal fan, Arthur would not see that as a flattering comparison, so Merlin bites his lip and doesn’t say anything.

“You are truly the most magnificent boyfriend in the entire universe, Merlin, I can’t believe how lucky I am.” He coats Merlin’s face in kisses, like an exuberant puppy that's just heard the word “walk”. “You’re brilliant, and gorgeous, and wonderful, and I love you forever.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” says Merlin. He feels his eyes prickle and moisten. “God, Arthur. God. I didn’t ever think I could love anyone as much as I love you.”

“You big girl!” says Arthur, fondly, ghosting his lips across Merlin’s eyelids. “You great, big, frilly-frocked girl. God.” He lets his lips trail further down Merlin’s naked torso towards his groin, where Merlin’s half-hard cock is beginning to take an interest in proceedings. “Let me show me how much I appreciate you,” he says in a husky voice that makes Merlin groan.

It’s a bit unfortunate that Merlin’s phone chooses that very moment to ring.

Sighing, Merlin picks it up from the nightstand and presses the green button without thinking. 

“’Lo?” he says, voice a little bit trembly from all the emotion, and the distracting things that Arthur is doing. “S’me…” he squeaks.

“Merlin?” Morgana’s voice crackles through the phone. “What are you doing with Arthur’s phone? Is Arthur there? Are you OK? You sound a bit faint.”

Merlin gulps, looking at the phone. Shit. It’s Arthurs, not his. They have the same ring tone…  he puts it back to his ear.

“Merlin? Is Arthur there? Merlin?”

Her voice is all suspicious. Oh no.

“Erm, he can’t come to the pho…one at the moment,” says Merlin, voice all over the bloody place. “He’s … Fuck! Gotta go…o!” He goes up an octave on the last word, and hastily ends the call.

The phone goes again, but this time they leave it to go to voicemail, because, after all, it’s just not possible to survive the inquisitive questioning of your boyfriend’s oblivious sister while he’s doing *that* with his tongue.

~#~

When Gwaine comes in, he's feeling pretty good; his mad, chain-smoking agent, Gilli, has managed to get him an audition for a 2-part edition of "Waking the Dead", and Gilli's got a saucy-looking new receptionist. Naturally he had to pop into the local pub for a quick celebratory pint or two of London Pride on the way home, so what with one thing and another he's a bit tired and slightly the worse for wear.

He eyes the discarded waitress costume on the sofa. It's scattered with silvery shards of creme-egg wrapper and suspicious-looking stains. He nods, knowingly, shrugs, and tosses it onto the floor. Grinning, he puts on the telly to disguise the rhythmic "thud-thud" noises and occasional groans coming from Merlin's room. 

He's got his feet up in front of some UEFA cup action when the doorbell rings. Sighing, he casually toes the soiled waitress costume under the sofa before he answers. 

"Mithian!" he says, eyeing her appreciatively. She's wearing her nightie and a pair of slippers; her hair tumbles seductively round her shoulders, her dressing gown is gaping open a little. "You're looking mighty fine this evening!" He opens the door wider and ushers her in.

"Have you seen Arthur anywhere?" she says, and he has to hide a pang of disappointment when she flushes under his gaze and draws her dressing gown more tightly closed. "I haven't seen him for days and Morgana keeps ringing me up and shrieking that he and Merlin have been kidnapped." 

Gwaine's eyes flick involuntarily across to Merlin's door, then back to the sofa, which is still liberally decorated with discarded creme egg wrappers. He tries to distract Mithian's eye with a little wave while he hastily nudges at a tiny piece of Arthur's waitress uniform that is sticking out from underneath. 

She's not fooled. "What's going on Gwaine? You know something, don't you. You haven't been this silent since you watched Gwen's birth video." 

He shudders. "I've told you before, do not speak of that again!"

"There's something going on, isn't there. Is Merlin in?" 

"No..." 

She glares accusingly at him and stalks across to the TV, extinguishing it. Unmistakeable ecstatic grunts and moans fill the sudden silence, and they're coming from Merlin's room.

"Arthur," croaks a familiar voice. "Oh God. Do that again. Oh God, Arthur, your tongue!"

Mithian's mouth sets in a thin line. "Well?" she says. "Are you going to tell me or do I have to go over there and open the door?" 

"NO! DON'T DO THAT!" He's horrified, but also secretly a little bit turned on, when she blushes and looks rather disappointed.

She pouts at him. "Spoil sport. It's Arthur, isn't it? He's shagging Merlin. Arthur's the moose." 

"I can't speak," he says. 

"Of course you can speak," she points out, pointing a finger at him. "Otherwise you wouldn't be able to tell me that." 

"Morgana will put a hex on me."

"How long has this been going on?" She puts her hand on her hip, bites her lip, and flashes her eyes at him indignantly. Damn, he can't resist an indignant woman. 

Gwaine gulps. "Promise you won't tell Morgana? I would like to keep my balls, and you know what she's like."

He supposes an eyeroll and accompanying humph count as a promise, so he tells her all about it. 

"Since Copenhagen? That's about 6 months!" she shrieks. He puts his hands over his ears. 

It's the moment when she starts getting curious about the piece of black, waitress-costumey fabric poking out from under the sofa that he decides more extreme distraction technique is required. Imagine his surprise when his opportunistic kiss is returned with an extremely gratifying whimper and reciprocal tongue. 

He smiles down into Mithian's mouth. "How're _you_ doin'?" he purrs. 

Four loud grunts and a long, wavering wail break through the silence from Merlin's bedroom, and Mithian gulps, tongue tip moistening her flushed, pink lips. "Do you have to listen to that all the time?" she whispers, her hand snaking down Gwaine's torso. "How on earth do you cope?"

"Let me show you," he says, pulling the tie of her dressing gown and sliding his hand along to the thin, slippery fabric of her night-dress.  He nods at his door. "In my room." 

"What about Morgana?" she says, breathlessly.

"She'll live, but right now I have an urgent problem that needs solving." He's as hard as rock; he exhales sharply when he presses his erection into her soft dressing gown, and she whimpers but doesn't pull away. She swallows, looking down, biting her lip. Her lips look lush and full in the half light of the room when she gazes coyly back up at him through her lashes. 

"Me too," she says, in a breathless whisper that makes him groan. 

"Let me take care of that for you first, shall I?" Gwaine purrs. 

"Yeah, why not?" she says, smiling, her small hand leaving appreciative warm trails on his chest before she reaches up for another scorching hot kiss that makes Gwaine's eyes cross. "Let's do that." 

Wow. He hadn't realised, before, that a hot chick like Mith could get off on the sound of his flat-mate fucking. He sends a silent salute of thanks through Merlin's door as they shuffle past, clutching on to each other. 

Mithian's phone is in her dressing-gown pocket, and it starts to ring. Gwaine dives into the pocket and fishes it out; the display says "Sexy Fossilgirl".

He tosses it onto the sofa where it rings mournfully to itself for a while, unheeded, then gives up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mildly divergent use of Cadbury's Creme Eggs in an osculatory context. (A.k.a. chocolate snogging). Skip if that's not your bag. Oh, and there's a hint of Gwaine/Mithian coming up. Don't know how that happened, I swear!


	14. The One Where Morgana Oversteps The Mark

It’s a rare night off from the restaurant. Things are going rather well, there—in fact, so well that opportunities to spend time with Merlin are few and far between, these days—so this evening they are holed up in Arthur’s room, having issued strict instructions to Gwen not to let Morgana in to the flat without warning them.

Now that both Mithian and Gwen know about their relationship, and have been sworn to secrecy, with dire threats and imprecations, they deem Arthur’s room to be safe from Morgana’s prying eyes.

Big mistake.

For now, Arthur is enjoying the novelty of sharing his personal space with Merlin. The way that the stark, white blinds make perfect parallel lines across his window soothes him. Plus, he loves the way the cleanly-laundered scent of his bed-linen mingles with Merlin’s earthy musk. 

They’ve got to be so, so quiet. Although Gwen and Mithian are having an “Indiana Jones” marathon, he’s sure he doesn’t remember “Raiders of the Lost Ark” having quite that many silent moments. He wouldn’t put it past Gwen to keep muting it, and judging by the occasional giggles that he hears through the door, Mithian’s not above that trick either.

Merlin had been mortified at the fact that Mithian had overheard him, that time, _begging_ _Arthur for more_.

So they’re taking it slow, to avoid giveaway, rhythmic headboard-banging noises, and Merlin’s on his elbows and knees, with his mouth muffled by a pillow, just in case.

Letting his hand glide gently across the well-defined muscles of Merlin’s pert little bum, Arthur relishes the small, desperate sounds this pulls from Merlin, the way his arse twitches, and his breath stutters. Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of these tiny gasps and moans. Merlin’s so desperately trying not to let any of them out, and yet, still they escape him, muffled bursts of longing that spear Arthur’s heart and ignite his desires.

There’s another pillow under Merlin’s hips, covered by a prudently arranged bath-towel. Arthur is lined up along Merlin’s hot, pale back, which squirms and writhes under his greedy touch. He has a birds-eye view of the tiny pink marks he’s left with his hungry mouth and fingertips, tasty morsel that Merlin is, and they make him want _more_.

“That’s it, Merlin,” he purrs, sliding back and forth, fucking in and out in a slow, delicious rhythm. Merlin’s tight furl sucks him in, and he lets out a long, low groan, met by another one of those delicious sighs.

“Now, now! Not yet! Don’t be so hasty!” he admonishes, batting Merlin’s hand away from his own rigid cock.

“More, Arthur, please, I… you’ve got to—please, Arthur! I need—” Merlin’s almost sobbing now, albeit very, very quietly, but Arthur carries on, relentlessly slow. His hand kneads those straining buttocks one more time and then whispers around Merlin’s hip. He can feel his own orgasm build, wonders if they can get the timing just perfect, or if Merlin’s just too far gone, will tip over the edge before him.

“Wait for me Merlin,” says Arthur, deep-voiced and throaty with desire, heart hammering so hard he thinks he might burst with the sheer force of it.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers brokenly, “Arthur, please.” And he whimpers, a tiny sound that makes Arthur _ache_ with need. And that’s all that it takes, Arthur can feel his climax building, tugging at him, pulling him past the brink. He pulls back out, infinitely slowly, and then, with great restraint, pushes in, infinitely far, so, so gently in that he thinks he might scream. He cries out, deaf to Merlin’s pleas, oblivious to the need for silence, his vision sparking. Numbly he gropes with clumsy fingers, curls his hand around Merlin’s still-hard prick, and when he finally tugs at him, once, twice, Merlin shakes and judders under his touch, moaning broken endearments as he comes.

“I think you broke me,” says Merlin, some time later, voice still pillow-muffled and hoarse. They’re still all tangled up together, sticky and breathless. “I think I’ll never be the same again.”

“Stop complaining, you ungrateful sod,” says Arthur, removing the prudently-placed and now thoroughly debauched bath-towel from beneath Merlin’s pliant body, and flinging it into the laundry basket, before flopping back onto the bed.

“Oh no, I’m not complaining. I’m the happiest broken man alive.”

Personally, Arthur thinks that he’s got stiff competition for that particular accolade, because Arthur’s in terrible danger of getting a bit sappy and sentimental about Merlin. Merlin’s turning to look at Arthur, eyes dancing. He presents a goofy, rumpled-looking face, sex-addled expression and tousled hair.

Arthur barks out a chuckle. “OK I admit it, you do look a bit broken from this angle.” He has a sudden urge to straighten Merlin’s hair with his fingers, and iron the pillow-induced crease from his cheekbone with a fond thumb.

Yep. Sappy, sentimental, and head over heels in love.

Merlin catches his hand and pulls it to his cheek. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this before,” he says, serious-eyed, diamond-certain, “but I’m completely daft, crazy, nuts about you, Arthur Pendragon.”

Gulping, Arthur nods, sliding his hand into Merlin’s hair. “Likewise,” he says. “I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit bonkers about you too. More than a bit. A lot. All the way. All the way bonkers. For you, Merlin Emrys.” 

They smile at each other, and Arthur breaks a little bit more.

It’s not long after that when there’s a loud bang—the door to the flat—followed by seven quick, loud tap-taps—the sound of a purposeful pair of Manolo Blahniks crossing Mithian’s lovely wood-floor living room.

“Incoming!” yells Gwen.

Then there’s a rude rat-tat-tat on Arthur’s bedroom door.

Shit.

“Arthur! Open up!”

Shit. “Fuck off, Morgana.”

“I’ll give you five seconds to open the bloody door, and after that I’m coming in myself.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Arthur hastily and apologetically buries Merlin under the bedclothes, feeling a pang as he sees all that lovely flesh disappearing from view, and makes a mental note to ensure that he puts a bloody lock on his bedroom door.

Four seconds.

“Arthur, did you hear me?”

He scrambles about picking up Merlin’s hastily discarded clothes, and shoves them under the duvet as well.

“Piss off, you witch! For God’s sake, I’ve got company!”

Three.

“Bullshit.”

Two. He grabs a pair of boxers and pulls them on. “Isn’t a man entitled to a private life around here?”

“Not when he’s wriggled out of hosting this year’s Christmas Eve dinner, he’s not. There’s no way you’re leaving me alone with Uther and Katrina—”

One. “I’m working!” He silently congratulates himself and starts to tug on some trousers.

“Time’s up!” Morgana strides through the door, takes one look at the huddled shape under the covers, and snorts. “Well, well, well, little brother. I thought you had fabricated the boyfriend, but it seems that you weren’t lying after all.”

She moves across and grabs the covers, but thankfully Merlin is wise to her tricks and is clinging onto them for dear life from underneath, because try as she might she cannot tug them off. She manages to unearth one lonely, pale foot, which whips back under the covers like a coiled spring, before Arthur seizes her arm.

“Leave him alone, Morgana!” His voice feels dark and gravelly, threatening. He steps over her, crowding her space.

She gulps. “I just want to know whether this boy who has been taking up all your spare time is someone worthy of you, Arthur.”

“Trust me, he is. Now what the fuck do you want?” He yanks her roughly away from the bed. “I don’t know where the hell you learned that it’s OK to waltz into someone’s room while they’re having private moment with their lover, but you bloody well need to unlearn that right now, Morgana, because I can assure you that it’s not OK, not in any civilised culture. How dare you?”

Some of his outrage must have made it into his face because she has the grace to look a little bit shocked and contrite.

“I just—“

“You just thought you’d ruin my night off, bitch!” he yells, too furious to censor his speech any more. “My first night off for two weeks! It’s no wonder he doesn’t want you to know who he is. Now stop ruining things for me, let me lead my life as I see fit, and fuck right off, all right?”

“I just want what’s best for you, Arthur.” Her bottom lip’s quivering. “You’ve been hiding things from me, and Father, and I don’t know what’s going on with you. I just—I would like to meet him, all right? And so would Father. But you keep pushing us away.”

He sighs and rakes his hair with his hand. His blood’s still surging madly in him, yelling at him to scream and lash out, but he takes a deep breath instead.

“Look. I’d love to show off my amazing boyfriend to my crackpot bloody family, because he’s brilliant, all right? He’s brilliant, and supportive, and—and he’s an amazing lover. He makes me happy, Morgana. Happier than I think I’ve ever been. But he says he’s not ready to meet you yet, and when you behave like this, like you bloody own me, I can’t help respecting his decision. I am a grown man, and I will be the judge of what is best for me. And right now, I judge that the best thing for me is a relaxed night in with my boyfriend. Is that too much to ask?”

She shakes her head, and gulps, her eyes shining, and then looks down.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “You have grown up, little brother. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” Turning to leave, she closes the door quietly behind her. The room seems curiously silent. They can hear the faint sounds of someone exiting the flat.  

When he turns back to the bed, Merlin’s still hidden from view.

“It’s safe to come out now,” says Arthur. “Merlin?”

Merlin uncovers his head and shoulders, flushed and sweaty from his temporary incarceration.

“Could you _be_ any more manly, defending my honour,” he says with a dopey expression on his face.

Arthur chuckles, his anger dissipating, and flops onto the bed. “I meant it, you know,” he said. “I would love to show you off to my family, even if they are batshit crazy.”

Merlin’s lip quirks up on one side. “Me too,” he says. “Perhaps it’s time we went public.”

There’s another, more respectful knock on the door.

“Arthur? Merlin? Are you both there?” It’s Gwen. “It’s just, we wondered if you’ve finished having sex yet, or if you’re going to have another round? We’re restarting the movie and I want to turn the sound up, but Mithian won’t let me because she says she doesn’t want to miss anything?”

“Gwen!” Mithian’s voice is more like an outraged squeak. Arthur and Merlin turn to each other and chuckle.


	15. The One Where Morgana Needs A Plus One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been written for the "Santa Hat" box on my Merlin Holiday Bingo card.

Now that Arthur’s got that kitchen-based apprenticeship, he’s been so busy that Morgana hasn’t been able to get hold of him for a conversation. She doesn’t even know which restaurant he’s working in.

That’s caused her a pressing problem. Now that Arthur’s dropped out, it has been a real struggle for her to find someone suitable as her Christmas Eve “plus one”.

Mithian, who would be her first choice, is helping the caterers out, and earning a bit of money at the same time, waitressing. Gwen is busy with her gorgeous, smouldering-eyed obstetric surgeon, Lancelot. Sophia is out of the question, Morgause even more so. Gwaine is—well, she may not get on that well with her father and his partner, but there are some things that even she can’t bring herself to inflict on them, and Gwaine falls into that category. Besides which, if he and Katrina were ever to share the same physical space the ensuing inappropriateness might make the universe implode.

Which leaves Merlin.

She feels guilty about having to threaten him with a carving knife to get him to agree. But, thankfully, once he’d stopped gibbering and backing away, defensive hands covering his nether regions, he capitulated. It might have had something to do with the prospect of a cordon bleu meal. In her experience, men seem unable to resist good food.

In that regard, maybe Arthur’s career choice is not such a bad idea after all.

Morgana enters her tiny flat, with Uther and Katrina in tow. Uther has brought a friend, Leon, along; he and Merlin trail apprehensively in their wake.

She gasps when she enters her transformed living room. It’s decked with tasteful Christmas decorations; delicious smells waft in from the kitchen. She’s forbidden from entering her own kitchen, because apparently the chef is rather temperamental and will storm out if anyone other than the waitress comes in while he’s preparing or cooking. It’s a bit strange to be prevented from entering one’s own kitchen, but Morgana thinks she could get used to it if it makes her flat smell like that.

Mithian, dressed in a freshly pressed waitress outfit, topped with a bright red, felt ‘Santa’ hat, politely takes their coats. She looks like a sweet little elf. Morgana kisses her gratefully on the cheek. It’s Mithian who has come to her rescue, Mithian who booked the caterer.

Such soft skin Mithian has. Morgana wants to purr and rub their cheeks together like kittens. “You are a diamond,” she whispers in Mithian’s ear.

She can see close-up how this makes a blush creep up Mithian’s neck, spreading and blooming across her pale skin. When Mithian smiles charmingly back, her dimples make Morgana’s breath catch. How could she ever have forgotten how much she adores Mithian? What had she been thinking when she’d married Morgause? That fiasco has taught her one thing; to sort out her relationship with someone who actually matters.

“Actually, I haven’t had to lift a finger yet!” Mithian says, beaming. “It’s not me you’ve got to thank, it’s Ar—” but her words are swallowed up by the sudden loud fit of coughing that overcomes Merlin.

“Are you all right, Martin?” says Katrina, patting Merlin on the back.

He seems to recover fairly quickly when Morgana glares at him. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Something—erm—something went down the wrong way. Erm—it’s the catering company, that’s what Mithian was trying to say.” he says. “They’ve done everything.”

“Yeah, even laundering all the tablecloths,” says Mith, still smiling. “And pressing them, and my uniform, look at the creases!”

Morgana’s not a complete idiot, she can tell that Merlin and Mithian are hiding something by the way they exchange conspiratorial looks. Well, she can always wheedle it out of them later. For now she has her father and his partner to placate, not to mention the extra person that Uther insisted on bringing along. She has a horrible suspicion that Uther is trying to pair him off with Arthur.  

“So, Leon,” she says, turning to the mystery guest, and ushering him in. “Welcome to my humble abode.” He has a gentle demeanour, and a crooked smile that hints at mischief underneath. She likes him immediately.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is calm and level, soothing—it would make a good bedside manner. “I’m looking forward to a lovely evening.”

 _Good luck with that_ , she thinks, with a sideways glance at her father.

~#~

When they sit down, there’s one unoccupied chair, between Leon and Katrina. Uther has insisted that a place be laid for Arthur, in case he finishes work in time to have dessert with them, and that it should be next to Leon.

Mithian disappears off into the kitchen to help plate up the hors d’ouvres, and the rest of them sit awkwardly round the table, sipping champagne, except Merlin, who for some reason insists on drinking sparkling water. She wishes Merlin would stop giving Uther terrified looks, as if it was Grilled Merlin on the menu instead of whatever the catering company has produced. She hopes it’s not the usual run-of-the-mill Christmas fare; they’re having turkey and all the trimmings with Gwen, Lance and Gwaine tomorrow.

She takes a peek at the menu card.

> **_~_ **
> 
> **_Menu du Jour_ **
> 
> **_~_ **
> 
> _Hors D’Oeuvres_
> 
> Mousseline de Homard au Champagne et Caviar
> 
> **_~_ **
> 
> _Entree_
> 
> Canette Rôtie, Cuisses Confites Jus au Porto
> 
> **_~_ **
> 
> _Dessert_
> 
> Crème Coco Ivoire, Mangue et Citron Vert
> 
> **_~_ **
> 
> Fromages
> 
> **_~_ **
> 
> Café et Petits Fours

Morgana is beginning to salivate. Mithian has come up trumps with this catering company, she must remember to take their card.

“I’ve never had any truck with foreign food,” says Katrina, eyeing this delectable-sounding list with extreme suspicion. “They could be feeding us brains and bollocks for all I know. I’m not eating horses doobries, I can tell you that for nothing!”

“There’s a translation on the other side,” says Morgana, trying to avoid letting her lip curl to show her distaste. Uther has drilled his children in manners and proper etiquette so harshly and for so long, she will never understand how he has ended up with a troll like Katrina.

> **_~_ **
> 
> **_Menu of the Day_ **
> 
> **_~_ **
> 
> _Starter_
> 
> Lobster Mousse with Aquitaine Caviar and Champagne Butter Sauce
> 
> _~_
> 
> _Main Course_
> 
> Roast Goosnargh Duck with Crispy Legs, Beetroot Tatin and Port Jus
> 
> **~**
> 
> _Dessert_
> 
> Set Coconut and White Chocolate Cream, Mango and Lime Salad
> 
> **~**
> 
> Cheeses
> 
> **~**
> 
> Coffee and Confection
> 
> **~**

Katrina doesn’t seem any the wiser, and she harrumphs as she examines this list through her reading glasses. Merlin’s got that deer-in-the headlights look again. It’s like a car-crash episode of “Come Dine with Me”. Honestly, it is a jolly good thing that Mithian is here, albeit in a professional capacity.

“Does the catering company not have any staff that could help you, Mithian?” she says.

Mithian smiles again. “On Christmas Eve? You’re lucky to get the chef, to be honest!”

“I do hope we have not got a second-rate chef, or an apprentice,” says Uther, frowning. “Festive season or no, Morgana is paying for this, and I expect the food to be top quality.”

Again, Merlin and Mithian exchange alarmed looks. Morgana opens her mouth but, after Mithian catches her eye and gives her a warning shake of the head, closes it again.

“So, Martin,” says Leon, extending a friendly hand to Merlin. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure?” Despite his slightly hairy appearance, he does seem like a well-mannered sort of person. Morgana had forgotten to introduce the two men—it’s no real surprise, she’s a bit flustered about this evening, about having to cope with Katrina undiluted by her brother.

She’s really going to kill Arthur next time she has an uninterrupted opportunity and no witnesses.

Merlin shakes his hand, cautiously. “It’s Merlin, actually,” he says, and he keeps swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He sounds all nervous and formal, honestly, you’d think he was trying to make a good impression on Uther or something. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Merlin, it’s a pleasure. I’m Leon—”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Uther interrupts, taking off his reading glasses. “I’ve been rather remiss with my introductions. Leon, I’d like to introduce my daughter’s friend, Merlin, who has kindly agreed to accompany Morgana this evening. I had been hoping I could introduce you to my son, Arthur. As we discussed, he is single, and I think it is about time he found a suitable partner. I think you might find him attractive. I was hoping that the two of you could organise a date. He’s a wayward son, but I believe he has recently got a steady job—what the?”

This last exclamation is aimed at Merlin, who has spat out his drink all over the pristine, white table cloth, and is coughing convulsively. He seems to be choking so badly that there are tears in his eyes.

Morgana frowns at him, and is relieved when he gets up and leaves the room, presumably to quell his coughing fit in the loo. Morgana wishes Merlin had told her he was unwell, he really must have a terrible chest infection.

So, that confirms it. Uther is trying to set Arthur up with Leon. Morgana must ensure that he is a suitable match. After all, it’s no good Arthur ending up with another creep like Aredian, or a commitment phobe like Myror. Leon looks like a steady kind of character, he might be good for Arthur.

Mithian chooses that moment to enter the room and start delivering the hors d’ouvres. It’s only when she’s put all the plates out that Merlin returns, looking sheepish.

“Sorry!” he says. “Frog in my throat!”

It’s time to start eating the starter, so they tug out their clean, beautifully pressed, white napkins and put them on their laps; Leon watches, round-eyed, as Katrina tucks hers into her ample cleavage.

“Here, my plump little pumpkin,” Uther says fondly. He reaches round her to retrieve the correct knife. “Use the outer knife first. It is perfect for the starter, see?” She grasps the knife and he takes the opportunity to tickle her under the armpit.

Simpering, Katrina slaps his wandering hand away. “Not now, my saucy sausage,” she says, giggling into her napkin.

Uther chortles and removes his hand. Morgana snorts, wishing she could take a picture of Merlin’s horrified expression and Leon’s slack jaw; clearly they haven’t encountered Katrina in all her glory before.  

“So, Leon,” she says, trying to draw attention away from the nauseating spectacle of Uther drooling at Katrina’s heaving bosom, “how long have you known my father?”

“Oh, many years,” says Leon, who seems to be having trouble wrestling his gaze away. “I think Uther first started coming to see me eight years ago.” He has such a calm, soothing voice, but he might be a tiny bit old for Arthur. He must be in his forties.

“Coming to see you? In what capacity?” says Merlin, also apparently relieved to be having a conversation that doesn’t involve pumpkins or sausages.

“I’m Uther’s proctologist—erm, are you all right?”

Because Merlin is having another one of those coughing fits. This time Morgana is beginning to understand that, far from having a terrible respiratory ailment, he is afflicted by a total inability to deal with the situation.

“Sorry,” he chokes. “Crumb. On my epiglottis.” He takes a long swig of water and fails to meet her eyes.

This could be a lot of fun. She turns to Leon with a mischievous expression on her face. “I’ve never met a proctologist before,” she says, with her most innocent smile, ignoring the way that Merlin buries his mouth in his napkin and snorts, loudly. “It must be rather useful, as a gay man, having such an intimate understanding of the male anatomy.”

Leon, to his credit, keeps a perfectly straight face when he replies. “Oh yes.” He closes his mouth round a forkful of the lobster, eyes closing in bliss. “It definitely is.” He opens his eyes again and grins at Merlin, who is looking a bit pale. “Plus, it’s quite a buzz dealing with my more, shall we say, _attractive_ clients.”  He leans across the table, giving Merlin an appreciative look up and down. “It’s always a good idea for men to take care of their reproductive health. I’d be happy to give you a free examination if you like?”

“I—erm—thanks, I don’t—” Merlin’s eyes are like saucers, and for once he appears to be lost for words. Oh, she _likes_ Leon.

“And how about you, Merlin?” Leon carries on. “Are you single?”

“Gosh. Erm—yeah? I mean, no. Erm. That is, I’ve seeing someone. Erm—” His eyes dart pleadingly towards Mithian, who’s just come back into the room.

“Shame,” says Leon.

Hiding her amusement behind her napkin, Morgana decides to take pity on poor Merlin. For now, anyway.

“That was delicious, Mithian,” she says. “Give my regards to the chef. It’s a shame Arthur can’t be here. He’d love this.” 

Uther puts his knife and fork together and swirls champagne round his glass. “So, remind me, Morgana, what exactly is Arthur’s reason for not being here tonight?”

“He’s working,” says Morgana.

“In that ridiculous fast-food restaurant?”

“No!” says Merlin, cutting in. Morgana looks at him in surprise. Since when did Merlin get so protective of Arthur? “He’s doing really well! He’s found a—position—”

“He’s been doing some sort of cooking apprenticeship,” says Morgana, frowning at Merlin. “He won’t tell me where, he’s being very secretive about it.”

Uther’s expression changes, from warm to cold in a heartbeat, and he pins Morgana with his gaze. “I can’t believe that Arthur is still working as casual catering staff, at his age,” he says, dabbing his lips with his napkin and glaring at her as if it’s all her fault. “If he’d continued with his law degree—”

“Arthur would hate being a lawyer,” says Merlin, toying with his food. “He’d be miserable. He adores his current job.”

Turning his head to fix Merlin with a penetrating look, Uther stares him down until he swallows and looks away. Morgana winces and has the grace to feel a little guilty for dragging Merlin into this bear pit.

When Mithian brings out the roasted duck there isn’t a lot of conversation for a while, because it’s actually one of the most exquisite things that Morgana’s ever tasted. Judging by the way that Katrina is gobbling it, _port jus_ dribbling down her chin so that Uther has to dab it away with his napkin, she’s enjoying it too. Even Merlin seems to relax a little while he tucks into his beetroot tatin.

She wonders why Merlin is so jumpy this evening. All right, she gets it that Uther can be intimidating, but Merlin’s nerves are way beyond what she would normally expect for someone who is only a casual acquaintance of Uther’s daughter.

“So, sir,” says Merlin, earnestly. “How is business?”

Calling Uther sir? Asking him about business? He’s straying into nervous boyfriend territory.

Well, if he’s thinking about changing his allegiances he’s chosen the wrong girl. Mithian has been known to do the occasional bit of heterosexual dabbling, that recent thing with Gwaine being a case in point, but Morgana is totally uninterested in males and their sweaty, unreliable appendages.

But it’s actually a great tactic, because Uther rambles happily on about some customer or another, while Merlin looks like he’s managing to nod in mostly the right places. This is fantastic; it gives Morgana an opportunity to admire Mithian’s pert backside, while Mithian bustles about, topping up wine, and clearing away empty serving dishes.

How did she ever let sweet, sly, Mithian slip through her fingers? She wants to wipe Gwaine’s grubby fingerprints off her. She could kick herself.

It’s always been Mithian, really, ever since they were teenagers. Morgana had always felt so guilty about how chubby Arthur became after their mother died, when he refused to eat anything but junk food. And then Uther put him on that strict diet, and Arthur was so rebellious. It was awful.

That was when Mithian worked a miracle; she encouraged Arthur to cook his own food. Mithian saved Arthur then, and because of that she’d also saved Morgana, and she’d been saving Morgana ever since.

Now that the conversation has turned to an animated discussion of investment tactics, returns on capital employed, and appropriate accounting techniques for SMEs, whatever they are, Katrina is beginning to act up. Presumably she feels neglected, but Morgana can’t help feeling sorry for Leon, because she’s fluttering her lashes at him coquettishly. The beetroot stains on her lips are an unattractive shade of purple; Leon is visibly leaning away from her, and looks like he’s swallowed a hard boiled egg.

But Mithian saves the day again—along with the sainted chef, of course—because she brings in a dessert that looks so mouth-wateringly delicious that conversation stops immediately. When Morgana bites into it, it’s sweet and creamy, with such an incredible explosion of tangy flavours, that for a moment she’s unable to focus.

“Bloody hell, Mith,” she says, with her mouth full. “You’ve got to try this. It’s bloody gorgeous.”

“Morgana!” Uther chides her. “Manners!”

Mithian smiles. “Don’t worry, Gaga,” she says. Morgana feels a blush blooming on her face at the private endearment. “I’ve been tasting bits and bobs all afternoon. I know! Ar—the caterers are brilliant.”

The chef’s still closeted in Morgana’s kitchen, from which the occasional bang and clatter serves to remind them that there’s someone still working hard for them, this Christmas Eve. She must remember to pop in and thank him or her at the end of the evening.

“Where did you find this amazing catering company?” says Uther, taking a second mouthful. “This food is exquisite. I would be happy to hire them for a business event.”

Mithian looks nonplussed for a second, and it’s Merlin who chimes in. “It’s a friend of mine, actually,” he says. “Apprenticed to Michael de la Roux.”

“Well I must say it was quite nice.” Katrina has already eaten every morsel on her plate, and is licking it, catlike. “But the portions were a bit on the small side.”

Smiling indulgently, Uther pats her hand, and dabs at her mouth with his napkin again.

“I hope you have saved a bit for Arthur,” says Mithian.

“Arthur doesn’t deserve any of this,” says Uther, all trace of smile vanishing. “He’s neglecting his family, which is very poor manners. He has singularly failed to make anything of himself, through sheer fussiness and poor choices. I blame myself for what he has become.”

Morgana flushes as he fixes her with a steely glare that means it’s actually her that he blames.

She’s shocked when Merlin surges to his feet, pale-faced and furious, hurling his napkin onto his plate. He wags his index finger in Uther’s face, so that Uther goes a bit cross-eyed.

“That’s enough!” says Merlin, all trembly-voiced and passionate. “You sicken me, Uther Pendragon. You sit here, indulging your partner with one breath, flailing your children with your impossible expectations in the next. I cannot believe your double standards. You’re a bloody hypocrite.”

“How dare you—”

“Shut up!” Merlin’s yelling now, a vein standing out on his neck, his face contorted with rage.

He must be insane. No-one defies Uther; death by hypercriticism is the only possible outcome. Morgana shields her face with her hand, and then peers through her fingers, like a child watching a scary episode of “Doctor Who”.

Banging the table for emphasis, Merlin harangues Uther for his neglectful parenting, his overbearing manner, his appalling presumptuousness at trying to set Arthur up on a blind date with Leon, and his hypocrisy. Uther just sits there with his mouth open. It’s all a bit magnificent, and she’s filled with admiration at Merlin’s bravery.

When he’s finished insulting Uther’s ancestry, his dress sense, his tactlessness and his business élan, he stalks to the kitchen door, turning to deliver his punchline.

“Arthur is an incredible person, despite all your best efforts to break him. You don’t deserve him. You set impossibly high standards and expect him to fail. You belittle his achievements, denigrate his ambitions—well, I’ve had enough of it.”

It’s a majestic exit, only slightly marred when his sleeve gets caught on the door handle. When he enters the steam-filled kitchen, the door swinging shut in his wake, the clattering of pans comes to a sudden halt, so that the flat is filled with a stunned silence.

Leon clears his throat. “Well. Could you--erm—pass the wine please?” he says.

Uther, mouth still agape, looks to him. “Yes of course,” he says in a small voice, pouring himself a glass and then passing the bottle across the table.

Sighing, Morgana deposits her napkin on her chair and goes to the kitchen in search of Merlin. She happens to know that there are very sharp knives in there, and she doesn’t think he should have access to them when he’s in this mood.

She pauses on the threshold of her kitchen, hand to her mouth.

The steam swirls about and clears, so that she’s presented with a vision of Arthur, clad in an immaculate white chef’s hat and apron, wielding a whisk in one hand. The other is busy, clutching hard onto Merlin’s right buttock. Arthur’s eyes are closed, and his mouth is also occupied.

It looks like he's trying to snog Merlin’s face off.

Oh.

But, she thought Arthur was doing an apprenticeship—and Merlin said the chef was someone he knew who—oh.

But she thought Merlin was dating—and Arthur was dating—oh.

About a million things click into place. She’s been a bit thick.

“Arthur?” she whispers.

Arthur opens one eye, winks, drops the whisk, his free hand curling possessively around Merlin’s skinny shoulders. As he does so, he raises his middle finger in her direction and flips it at her.

“Morgana? It’s time for the coffee now—oh!” Uther comes blustering up behind her and is staring. It is an arresting sight.

Katrina, Mithian and Leon cram into the doorway, mouths agape.

“Buggeration!” says Katrina.

“Merry Christmas,” says Leon, tipping his glass at them all. “And thanks for all the lovely food.”  

“God bless us every one,” says Mithian, winking at Morgana from underneath her Santa hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Food options blatantly and unashamedly lifted from Michel Roux Jr's current Le Gavroche menu


	16. The One Where Arthur Turns Into A Real Moose And Gwaine Gets All Pensive

Much like Father Christmas, when Morgana arrives she's heralded by tinkling bells—although in her case the bells in question are above the door of the pub. Arthur can see Merlin’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, which means that he’s gulping nervously. It’s no big surprise that he’s apprehensive. They’re still not sure whether Morgana’s forgiven them for conducting a secret relationship without her permission.

Thankfully, it being Arthur’s birthday, and judging by the sizes of both the parcel she’s clutching and the grin on her face, Morgana’s in a gracious, magnanimous mood.

Nevertheless it’s not sensible to let his guard down just yet. The look on Morgana’s face is a little bit too calculating for comfort.

Arthur sighs. He’d better get the present-opening and associated humiliation over and done with, so that they can get down to the serious business of the evening, namely: drinking an obscene number of suggestively named alcoholic beverages, eating a ceremonial curry at the Battersea Tandoori, and then staggering home, singing raucously all the while. It’s a tried and tested formula, and Arthur sees no reason to rock the boat.

The parcel itself is nearly as big as she is. It’s probably the most enormous birthday present Arthur has ever seen, and he’s grateful to Morgana, because in a way he feels that it symbolises her approval of his relationship with Merlin.

“Open it, then, little brother,” she says, eyes gleaming dangerously in the dim pub firelight.

Before he rips into the wrapping paper, which he’s amused to see has a “moose” theme, Arthur peers at the gift tag. “Now we all know the identity of the moose, _deer_ brother, don’t forget to _buck_ the trend and invite me to your _stag_ party.” Grinning at these appalling puns, Arthur flashes a quick “V” sign at her and tears the paper off.

He withdraws the contents from its box with a flourish. It’s a large fancy-dress “moose” head, complete with antlers. It’s mounted on a shield, which declares “Moose on the Loose”. It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous thing that Arthur has ever seen, and he absolutely loves it. He feels a delighted grin spreading across his face as he places it over his head.

It must be good, because, when he rises to his full height, antlers grazing the ceiling, Merlin nearly falls off his chair laughing, and Gwaine spills his beer.

“I’m going to wear this, in memory of the secret relationship that Merlin and I once had,” Arthur states in his most pompous tones. “Please join me in raising a glass for a toast. Merlin, you as well, you lightweight. To the moose!”

“To the moose!” says Gwen. “May he never get loose!”

“To the moose!” repeats everyone at the table. They glug and slurp at their pints.

 Largely due to the vast quantities of ale that are being quaffed, things start to go downhill from there. They really take a turn for the worse when Arthur, prompted by a bet from Gwaine, stands, bellowing and mimes pawing the ground, before chasing Merlin round the pub like a randy bull moose. For some reason the landlord doesn’t take kindly to this behaviour and chucks them all out of the pub ten minutes before closing time.

Arthur keeps the hat on throughout the ceremonial curry, even during the traditional “thank you” speeches.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a moose eating papadams before,” says Mithian, as Arthur crunches his way through his starter. She’s sitting close to Morgana – suspiciously close, thinks Arthur, and he reminds himself that he really should ask Morgana about that some time, but not now, because his king prawn balti jalfrezi has arrived, and although Arthur may enjoy cooking fine food, he’s also a sucker for a good old-fashioned curry.

When he takes a pink-faced, glazed-looking Merlin home, he suddenly finds the idea of rutting like an in-season bull-moose curiously arousing. Pushing past Merlin into his room, he bolts the door and thrusts Merlin face down onto the bed, holding onto his haunches. Merlin giggles and squawks, limbs flailing wildly.

“Arthurrrr!” he protests, feebly, “You’re still wearing your moosehead!”

“I know,” says Arthur. “Want to keep it on while I fuck your pert little rump, Merlin.” He lets out what he hopes is an animalistic grunt while he fumbles with Merlin’s belt and zip. Merlin’s assisting with coquettish wriggles as Arthur slides his trousers down to his ankles and ruts into his pant-clad arse. He’s already half hard, and he can feel his arousal growing as he kneads and slaps at Merlin’s flank.

“I’ve fought the other bulls to get you, you tease,” he breathes, voice low and hoarse from singing, rubbing the hardening line of his prick against the line of Merlin’s soft underclothes, “and now I’m going to claim my prize with my prick, and my mouth, and my hands.”

Merlin whimpers, which encourages Arthur to go on, moaning theatrically.

“God, Arthur, you sound like a wookiee!” Merlin says. The breathiness of his tone, the way that Merlin’s voice cracks, makes Arthur’s pulse race. “Fuck me like Chewbacca! Oh God, that’s so hot, it’s so wrong, but so right. Shit, Arthur.”

“I know,” Arthur says, gulping, prising Merlin’s final layers of clothes away. “Going to slather lube all over your tight, pink little hole, Merlin, then I’m going to mount you, and pound your teasing little bottom until it stings.”

It’s far from erotic, but they’re both in their cups, and Arthur’s antlers make him feel powerful, invincible, and as horny as fuck. He lets out another wordless, animalistic grunt, and with shaking hands he lets down his pants as far as his knees, hearing Merlin’s breathing quicken. Merlin’s still loose and pliant from earlier, so all Arthur has to do is slick up with lube and pull on a condom before sinking gratefully into his blissful, welcoming heat, antlers thudding against the headboard.

Later, Merlin will make him take the antlers off so that they can actually get a reasonable night’s sleep, but for now, they can ignore Gwaine yelling at them to shut up through the plasterboard that separates his room from Merlin’s and simply enjoy each other as nature intends.

ooO8Ooo

_Six months later._

“I don’t see why it has to be bloody  Copenhagen.” says Gwaine. “The weather’s shite, it’s dark all winter, and the beer costs a fortune.” They’re sitting in Arthur’s flat, gorging on appetisers and waiting for the others to arrive.

“Don’t be such a grouse.” Sinking a forkful of Arthur’s latest culinary creation into his mouth, and groaning in bliss, because Arthur’s started experimenting in world cuisine, and his delicately spiced sweet-potato dhosa is simply out of this world, Merlin wonders why Gwaine’s out of sorts. “You seemed to like it enough last time we were there.”

All that Gwaine seems to be able to raise in reply is a noncommittal grunt, and he doesn’t raise his eyes to meet Merlin’s gaze.

Struck by a thought, Merlin puts down his fork and touches Gwaine’s wrist. “This isn’t about the trip, is it?”

Arthur sits down, looking enquiringly from one to the other.

Gwaine sighs and nods. “It’s just—I’m going to miss you, mate. Both of you. I’ll have to get another flat-mate, and they might not like the same things as me, and it’ll just be all weird.” His lips are drooping down at the corners in a thoroughly un-Gwaine-like manner.

Merlin exchanges a look with Arthur, who shrugs and looks uncomfortable, because, let’s face it, talking about feelings has never been his forte, then gets up to fiddle with the oven.

 “Me too, mate,” says Merlin, punching Gwaine gently on the arm. “But we’ll still see you all the time, right? And it was never going to last forever—one of us was going to pair up and move on eventually. It’s what people do.”

“I don’t.”  It’s not like Gwaine to be gloomy—and he won’t be for long—but Merlin understands that this isn’t something he can fix, and he sighs.

It is going to be the end of an era for everyone when he and Arthur finally move in together, an arrangement they’re hoping to formalise in Copenhagen with a humanist wedding in a few months’ time. Patting Gwaine on the arm, he pushes a plateful of Arthur’s mixed-vegetable samosas towards him, across the table. The way to Gwaine’s heart is still definitely through his stomach.

Merlin’s just shovelling another forkful into his mouth when the door goes. Grateful for the interruption, he gets up to answer. It’s Gwen.

“Hey Merlin, Gwaine, Moose,” she says.

With his antlered antics at the pub on his birthday, Arthur has sealed his moniker as the moose for ever now. He doesn’t seem to be too worried by that. After all, as Merlin tells him, he’s the best antlered cook in Battersea, and not many people can say that.

“Hey Gwen,” says Gwaine, his bottom lip still protruding sulkily.

She fixes him with a kind expression, head on one side. “What’s the matter?” she says, putting a concerned arm round him. He sinks gratefully into her embrace, face burrowing into her ample cleavage. Gwaine’s not one to look a gift bosom in the mouth, as it were.

Next time the door goes, there’s a key in the latch. Morgana and Mithian let themselves in. While Arthur spends a moment making sure that all the coats are hung up neatly in the cupboard, they wander in and start sampling Arthur’s home-made dhosas. When Mithian tastes one, Merlin sees her eyes flutter closed, and she makes incoherent, approving humming noises, while Morgana fondly tucks a stray lock of hair behind Mithian’s ear.

“Mithian and I would like to make an announcement,” says Morgana softly. Everyone falls silent, except Gwaine, who takes advantage of the moment to extract himself from Gwen’s embrace and grab an onion bhaji.

“Yes,” says Mithian, smiling up at Morgana so that her cheeks dimple. “We’ve made a decision. We’ve decided…”

“…not to get married,” says Morgana, smiling back. “It hasn’t worked out too well for me in the past, so we’re going to… avoid the problem.”

“Congratulations!” says Gwen with a squeal. She looks round the room and nudges Gwaine with a sharp elbow. “I hope we’re all invited to the unwedding!

“What?” says Gwaine. He’s dipping another onion bhaji into some chili pickle, and his face seems to be thawing a bit. “Wait. Yeah. Great! Congratulations!”

 “So… Arthur’s with Merlin, and Mithian’s with Morgana…” Gwen’s looking at Gwaine closely and Merlin’s not sure where she’s going with this. “You know what this means, don’t you, Gwaine?” She nudges him again, and Merlin nearly bursts out laughter at the hunted expression that appears on Gwaine’s face. If it’s possible for anyone to look hunted whilst chewing a bhaji, it’s Gwaine.

“No. No, no, no. I can see what you’re thinking, Gwen,” he says, mouth full, head shaking violently, “but these things are not inevitable… and I don’t mean to be rude…”

Gwen nods. “Don’t try to fight it,” she says wisely. “I think you’d better admit it to yourself.” She pats him fondly on the arm.

Gwaine’s eyes are as round as saucers.

Gwen bursts into peals of laugher. “You’re going to have to get another flat mate, Gwaine, that’s all! Heavens, what did you think I mean! You look like you’re about to be abducted by aliens!”

Gwaine looks relieved. “Wow, Gwen, don’t scare me like that. I thought you were going to suggest—”

Gwen mimes putting her finger down her throat. “God, no! Ew! I’m with Lance, Gwaine!”

“Phew!” Gwaine starts to laugh. “Well that’s all right then!”

“Besides which, you’ll be a terrible influence on the triplets,” says Gwen.

“Oi! They’ll be grateful that Uncle Gwaine can lead them through the minefield of dating when they’re older.”

“What a terrifying thought. I think Elyan should take out a court order,” says Morgana. “Just in case.”

As their dear friends continue to bicker, Merlin sends one of his best cheesy grins across the table to Arthur, who responds with a heartstoppingly sweet smile.

They’ll miss this - the banter, the companionship of their friends - but nevertheless he can’t wait for the wedding. He’s looking forward to having his moose to himself at long last.

_ooO8Ooo            The End            ooO8Ooo_


End file.
